


no voyage

by aheartcalledhome



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Trauma, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 08:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23968243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aheartcalledhome/pseuds/aheartcalledhome
Summary: The second anniversary of the war dawns on Wizarding Britain and Harry Potter still does not feel anything approaching normal.He had really thought waking from that 24 hour nap after the Battle of Hogwarts would fix him once and for all, but two years on, he’s still unable to sleep through the night, so jumpy that his girlfriend is worried about him, and he doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life after he failed the psych evaluations necessary to become an Auror. He had never expected to feel perfect two years after the Battle of Hogwarts, not that he knew what that was like, but he *had* expected to be okay.Good thing Harry Potter's well used to disappointment.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 34
Kudos: 115





	1. i lie like land used up, while spring unfolds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blattgefluester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blattgefluester/gifts).



> hey everybody!
> 
> this fic has been literal months in the making, thanks to my buddy blatt, and i hope it's worth it! i'm hoping to post every saturday in may (5 chapters), and if it strikes me, i might write more in this universe later! :) 
> 
> we'll see how things go! now that school's over, i hope to get moving a little more on creative projects! we'll see how it goes!
> 
> no voyage is named for the mary oliver poem, [which you can read here](https://maryoliverpoetry.tumblr.com/post/145843293333/no-voyage), and all the chapter titles are drawn from the poem! [i've also made a fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5QGmIqJ3FqhjnZXaIitDnQ?si=KacpNOvQT6eAyJUKEdyfxw), for those who are interested!
> 
> xo,  
> s

The second of May dawns warm and dry on Harry Potter jabbing a fork into a coffee machine. His joggers sit low on his hips as he leans forward over the machine, jabbing the plug further into the wall like the force would jumpstart it, a shock to the heart of the dastardly fiend which was keeping him from his breakfast on purpose. Behind him, the eggs are burning on the stove. 

He doesn’t notice until he smells smoke. Thick and choking, like the stale air in the basement of Malfoy Manor. It’ll set off the alarms and then they’ll blare in his head for hours after the fact, blending into police sirens and the sound of his mother’s screaming until he burrows under his covers and cries his head empty, once and for all. 

He fumbles for his wand, dousing the whole stove in water, and then curses under his breath -- water and electricity don’t mix, do they? Now the eggs are wet and the stove is wet and he can’t breathe because there’s so much smoke and the sizzling of water against the stove feels like it’s going on forever. His wand feels like it’s burning the inside of his palm because he hadn’t done magic in days before this. He feels like his skin is itching, like something deep within him is trying to escape, like there is something clawing at his insides and begging him for freedom--

“I leave you alone for five minutes…” Ginny leans against the doorframe, looking deliciously disheveled, a smirk playing on her lips. She’s wearing one of his old t-shirts (something he’d inherited from Dudley) and it hurts, twists something in his gut that he’d forgotten about. The kitchen is a mess and she is wearing Dudley’s shirt and it feels like every second that passes is a nightmare of a lifetime. “Go sit down, let me fix this.”

The report from the Aurors said that he had to learn to listen to orders before he applied again. He can start with listening to Ginny, who would never ask anything of him that he couldn’t, shouldn’t, give. He can start with walking to the couch and sitting down, just like she asked. His feet carry him forward reflexively as his brain whirls thoughts about within the confines of his skull. He doesn’t realize he’s sat down until the couch creaks under his weight.

He looks to Ginny. She’s smiling. He thinks he should smile because she is, so he does. Her smile falters. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried.

She sweeps into the kitchen, and with a few waves of her wand, has the stove clean as a whistle, the pan empty, and the coffee machine humming away. Envy roils in the pit of his stomach, red hot and wanting, and he stares down at his socked feet as he sits far too stiffly on the couch. His big toes have worn holes through the cloth. He’s had these socks since he was fifteen (around the same time he’d gotten the shirt Ginny’s wearing), and he doesn’t know if he deserves a new pair. Just because the money is there doesn’t mean the will is.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Ginny asks, and he works his jaw to pop his ears, because her words don’t sound right. It’s like they’re being filtered through water, through honey, through something thick and toxic. Everything sounds garbled, just an inch to the right of real. “Any preference?”

“I think I’ll go back to bed, actually.” The words say themselves, marching out of his mouth in a neat little line. Each word is clipped, the epitome of flawless, military precision. 

Ginny looks let down. 

She wouldn’t be the first. 

It’s the first morning he’s felt well enough to get out of bed without prompting, since the letter came. Twenty minutes and a ruined kitchen in, he’s already giving up. He’s not what she signed up for. Maybe he never was. Maybe she loved the man she thought existed, the Boy Who Lived, the hero who used the war as a springboard to something greater instead of haunting their bedroom like a ghost because someone dared say no to him. 

“Should I come get you? When breakfast is ready?”

His stomach growls.

“Yeah.” He says. “Of course.” 

He crosses the room, slow as a turtle, to steal a kiss. She lets him, an unimaginable kindness, and he takes her into his arms, the two of them swaying to the tune that their hearts sing to each other. It almost feels like a normal morning. It almost feels like everything is fine. It almost feels like he is worth her love, like he has earned it, like there is no wide, yawning chasm between what she wants and who he is.

They both know he’s lying, that he won’t get out of bed once he’s gotten in. He doesn’t like lying to her. He doesn’t like lying to anyone. He hasn’t since Umbridge made him carve the words into his hand, an eternal reminder that no one will believe him unless they see it with their own eyes. 

Dean Thomas had joked, a few months before, that the color of his skin should’ve taught Harry that. He’d stared at his hands, dyed the dark brown of old photographs by the summer sun, watched the way the tendons bobbed and weaved beneath the skin as he flexed his fingers. Was that something his father would have told him, if he had lived? Was that something that someone, anyone should have told him? What the color of his skin meant to others, what they would assume of him, how they would whisper when they thought he wasn’t listening that he was one of the good ones.

“I’ll see you in a bit.” She kisses him again, with a wild ferocity that makes him think of forest fires, of flares of light crashing against the protective enchantments at Hogwarts, of the way Voldemort’s voice had sounded when he called Harry to die. She sounds hopeful, like she truly believes he will come when called, will smile in a way that doesn’t dig serrated claws into her soul. “Sweet dreams, love.”

“They’re always sweet when I’m dreaming of you.” 

They sidestep the realization that he wakes screaming more nights than not, his heart a thunderbolt in his chest. He lets her believe all of his dreams of her taste like spun sugar, and she lets him pretend she doesn’t know any better, and his feet take him to bed, the lovely, lovely, traitors.

* * *

It is dark when he wakes and her shoulder blades are pressed against his chest. He leans his head forward, drags his lips against the column of her neck, and she comes awake slowly, an inch of skin at a time. Life bleeds from him into her, through his fingers, and every curve and joint he maps creak slowly beneath his hands, like she is a puppet and he is turning her movements into art. She will turn his touch into magic, into something worth remembering for the ages, and he will waste away, dust to dust, ashes to ashes.

Dreaming of King’s Cross always leaves a sour taste in his mouth, so he seeks to forget it in her, drown it in her, choke the memory between his hands until it shrivels away to nothing. None of that brutality ever reaches her. He reserves it only for himself. He is a wild, reckless thing who doesn’t learn without the belt, doesn’t learn without the raw ache of hunger sitting heavy in his stomach. There is a goodness to her sharp edges, to the way she roars and rages. 

Only death ever comes of him being angry.

Cedric, Sirius, Peter Pettigrew, the endless parade of Hogwarts students that fell, one after another, during the Battle of Hogwarts in his name. Fred. Ginny’s brother Fred. Crushed under a wall that he was only near because of Potterwatch, because of the DA, because of Harry. Because he believed in Harry. That didn’t work out too well for most people either.

Nothing good ever comes of him. Sometimes he wonders if the Dursleys weren’t right, when they told him he was wasting their space, their time, their resources. But Ginny is good despite him, is still here and still perfect, so maybe there is some good in him. Maybe the part of him that loves her, totally and wholly, is worth redemption. Maybe he can cast the rest of himself off and let that love be the base of who he is, let his heart lead him with abandon.

The issue is that he doesn’t know where to go. For the longest time, his goal was to be an Auror. To fight evil. To see the Death Eaters that ruined his childhood locked away forever so no child would ever suffer again. He had planned his OWLs by that, planned the NEWTs he never got by that, chasing the siren song of being useful once the war was over, of being wanted once the war was over.

He’d failed the simulation so thoroughly that the only reason they were holding the door for him was his name. His reputation. The Aurors couldn’t turn the savior of the Wizarding World out on the curb once and for all. For the sake of everyone involved, they had to frame it as a learning experience, as a temporary pause. They’d encouraged him to reapply when he’d fixed a few things about his application (his personality), but the words felt hollow, like they were a canned response to lessen the sharp, shooting ache of being rejected.

He drops a kiss on her forehead to soothe himself, but the hurt only intensifies. Is he using her for his own gain?

“Mm, Harry, no.” Ginny bats at his cheek. “Stop.” She sounds amused rather than upset, so he lays one last kiss on her cheek and settles back in. He relishes these moments, where he brings her out of her sleep rather than the nightmares, when they are quiet and warm and content together. “I’ve got a game tomorrow.” She slurs, leaning back to nuzzle his jaw. “Are you coming?” He can tell the exact moment she comes fully awake, when she hears what she’s said and pauses. “Shit, Harry, no, I mean-- take your own time, you don’t need to--”

“I want to go.” His voice wobbles, and he buries his face in her shoulder, his breaths coming in hot puffs against her skin. He feels distinctly uneasy, like every nerve ending is raw and painful, but presses himself closer to her regardless. He wants her heartbeat to become him, to swallow him down in bloody, loving glory. “I want to go. I want to see you.” He doesn’t know when his body began to shake, but he feels it when she peels herself away from him, her face suddenly inches from hers, and settles her hands on his shoulders. “I want to see you win.” He confides breathlessly. “I miss watching you do what you love. I miss feeling good enough to do it.”

“I know it’s difficult for you right now.” She cards her hand through his hair and he leans up into the touch. He thinks of Padfoot looking for scratches behind his ears and his heart aches, but he embraces the pain instead of crushing it down. Something about the safety of the darkness reminds him of his cupboard, where everything made sense even if it was wrong. “Hearing back from the Aurors, that was difficult. You have to take your time.” 

He can read between the lines as well as anyone else. She needs him there. She wants him there. He’s been hurting her, by taking time for himself. She needs his support, needs him to lift her up and hold her so she can grab the sun. They were a team before this and they will be a team after this. His hand skates down her side, dips under the hem of her shirt to settle over the curve of her hip as he draws her in for another kiss.

“I’ve taken enough time.” He says hoarsely. “You need me. I’m never going to compromise on you.”

“If it’s too hard--” Ginny cringes, the part of herself that still seeks to erase herself out of any story like words crossed out in a child’s diary seeking to smother her. It can’t hide the joy in her eyes, the excitement in her clenched fists, the way she is looking at him like he has pulled the stars down from the sky just for her. “If it’s too difficult for you--” Her words stop and start, like a tug of war between her brain and mouth, and he silences her with his lips against hers.

He knows what she means. He’s always known what she meant. Sometimes he twists the meaning to hurt himself, to drive the knives of other’s opinions a little deeper in a selfish desire to feel something, anything at all, but he always knows what she means. He can see the emotions behind her words clear as day, even in the middle of the night. She wants to give him a way out in case it doesn’t work, wants some safety for herself, wants both of them to get what they need. 

“I want to go.” He rubs his thumb along her hipbone before pulling her in as close as possible, his hand settling on the small of her back. “You’ll have to win for me, won’t you? Because I’m watching?” He peppers kisses on her cheeks and she yowls like a cat in a bath. “Tell Gwen, she’ll need to know you’re scoring all the goals tomorrow.”

“Harry, stop.” Ginny laughs, and his heart is so light that he thinks it might rip out of his chest, charting new territory in the sky. “I-- I would like it if you were there. But I don’t want you to push yourself.” Her fingers are playing with the hair at the nape of his neck and it’s beyond distracting. “I want you to take steps when you’re ready for them. Not because you think I want you to take them.”

“There’s no harm in a little bit of the second sometimes.” Harry says softly. “Especially when it’s for you. For us.”

“I’ll get you a ticket.”

* * *

They are jolted awake from their nap by a voice in the living room, and Harry slides out from under Ginny, grabbing his glasses and his wand in one hand. She snores in protest, sliding halfway off the mattress before crumpling to the floor in a twisted heap of limbs. Harry barely manages to put one foot in front of the other all the way to the living room, stuck in a twisted maze of thoughts that only lead toward blood and mauling and death, until he sees Percy Weasley, twisting the hem of his knitted sweater between his forefingers, looking at him like he’s not sure he’s welcome.

Percy shrinks back, long neck crooking like a giraffe’s, and Harry marshals his features into something resembling a welcoming smile, stashing his wand away in the pocket of his joggers. 

“Hello.” Harry says, trying to sound kind, trying to sound welcoming, trying not to sound like the kind of man who’s just an hour or two removed from doing utterly indecent things to Percy’s only little sister. “What’s brought you here?” He leans awkwardly against the end table, not expecting it to shift beneath his weight, and stumbles into the side of the sofa, cursing under his breath. That’ll leave a bruise. “Sorry. I’ve, uh, just woken up.”

“It’s three in the afternoon.” Percy says, confused, as Harry tugs the collar of his t-shirt up as far as it will go, afraid of what it might reveal. “And-- well, I’m here on business. Family business.” 

He blushes at the word family, as if he is still not quite sure he is allowed to say it. Harry knows the feeling. 

“Do you want me to get Ginny?” Harry asks, pointing his thumb back over his shoulder. “She’s still in bed.”

As if timed, Ginny groans loudly enough to be heard in the living room. Neither Harry or Percy can quite make eye contact for a few seconds after.

“I’ll have to tell you both separately, I suppose.” Percy licks his dry lips. “We have a niece. Well, I suppose Ginny and I do. Seeing as you’re not yet, err, well, not yet, but--”

“We have a new niece.” Harry said softly. He tucked the slight away for later, to turn smooth with the sandpaper of self-doubt. “So Fleur’s had the baby, then.” He glances down at his watch, like it will tell him the date, but in his heart, he knows the second of May isn’t over. “That’s quite a birthday.”

“Yes.” Percy looks rather regretful. It strikes Harry, then. The baby will forever share the second of May with Fred’s death. “Her name’s Victoire. They wanted… They wanted her name to mean something.”

Wasn’t that what they were all searching for? A way to make the senseless violence of the second of May mean something? And here was this child, one who would be raised in a world without war, with a name that meant victory, a promise of a brighter future. One Harry might be lucky enough to be a part of. She might even call him Uncle Harry someday, if he played his cards right.

“Victoire.” The name felt like a new pair of Quidditch gloves. Stiff, but with the promise of familiarity, of fitting like a second skin, in the future. “That’s quite a name.”

“No nicknames.” Percy said brusquely, with the nervous smile of someone who had found it out the hard way. “A Healer dared call her Tori and nearly lost her head for it.”

“Tori?” Harry frowned. “Wherever did they get that from?”

“No idea.”

Ginny chooses that moment to tromp down the hallway, looking half-drowned and freshly dug out of her own grave, and grunts at Percy by way of a greeting. “What’s he doing here?” She slurs, before draping herself over Harry’s side like a limpet. “I didn’t let him in.”

“There’s another Weasley girl in the world.” Percy says, an ocean of fondness condensed into seven words. “And she’d like to meet her Aunt Ginny.”

* * *

Victoire is bundled up in a pastel pink blanket hand-knit by her grandmother, a tuft of blond hair sticking straight up at the crown of her head. Someone’s pinned a bow on it, which Harry thinks is frankly ridiculous. She’s a baby. What does she know about bows? He shoots a look at Ginny, one he thinks is fairly innocent, and she giggles. Maybe it wasn’t. He’s never been good at hiding his thoughts.

“D’you want to hold her?” Bill asks, and Harry blanches. 

“Uh, let Ginny go. She’s good at this stuff.” He backs up behind Ginny, placing both hands on her shoulders like he’s using her as a human shield. “I’ll just, uh…”

“Hold her by proxy?” Hermione supplies. Like everything else, she is perfect at this. The sight of her cooing at Victoire, her and Ron’s head’s bent over the babies, tugged at Harry’s heart strings. Someday, his best friends will have someone new to sink their time and energy into, and the thought of it doesn’t scare him. If anything, it’s exciting. “You’re good with Teddy, Harry. She’s just Teddy, but smaller.”

“Ginny can go first.” Harry amends, and watches as Bill gently places Victoire in Ginny’s arms. He peeks over her shoulder, more nervous than anything else, and when Victoire mewls softly, getting settled in her aunt’s arms, Ginny looks up at him and beams. They were too young themselves to properly appreciate this stage with Teddy, the beautiful intersection of vulnerability and love. 

He reaches around Ginny to softly rub Victoire’s head with the pad of his thumb. Ginny’s heartbeat is loud against his chest, the baby is still quiet and sweet, and nothing has gone wrong just yet.

Maybe the game won’t be so bad, if this has been good.

* * *

The chairs in the Harpies’ stadium are uncomfortable, even up in the family and friends box, where Harry is currently haunting the farthest corner of the room from the action like a particularly grouchy gargoyle. On the other side of the glass, green and gold blurs soar through the air. Harry’s fingers twitch around an imagined broom handle, his stomach swooping as Ginny rolls and dives, like he’s right out there with her again, like when they were young.

Neither of them say “when we were kids” anymore. It feels like a false promise, like they’re painting over their childhoods in brighter colors, like they’re pretending the Dursleys and Tom never happened. Instead, they say “when we were young”, as if they aren’t young still, over the background noise of joints that crackle and pop like logs in the fire, and pretend they haven’t traded their old problems in for new ones. 

Teddy and Victoire are the heralds of a new generation. A new world, to which Harry is still acquainting himself. One that isn’t scarily like the maze during the third task of the Triwizard Tournament, a new horror lurking around the next corner, hackles always raised in case a new danger sprung up like the vines that had nearly dragged Cedric into the hedge. Cedric. Nearly five years after Cedric died, it still hurts to think of him.

It feels like everyone in the world is talking at once, the words knocking into each other in the hollow space between Harry’s ears. The sight of Ginny is the only thing keeping him rooted to this room, to this stadium, to this game. The sight of her doing what she loves most, the sight of her, joyful and throwing all her cares to the wind. There is nothing she takes more seriously than this game, nothing she plans and perfects more than every single turn and dive and feint. All of them blend into each other seamlessly, a mess of fingerpaint against the fabric of the sky, her greatest masterpiece.

He can’t believe anyone ever doubted she was meant for this.

He can believe that they doubted him. He might have killed Voldemort, but he’d had so much help. So many people had pushed him over the finish line. Of course, when tested truly by himself, all his weaknesses had shone like stop lights. Of course, when asked to act alone, to prove he’d learned from what he’d done, he’d come up empty. He had never been good at proving himself -- only at making impulse decisions that seemed to work out well, though he’d found himself wondering how much of that had been the prophecy, keeping him alive until that final confrontation. 

Ginny scores another goal. Harry’s empty hands, and career prospects, seem bleaker than ever.

“Mr. Potter.” A nervous, mousy looking boy who can’t be more than two years older than Harry asks, as if he’s not sure he’s being formal enough. “Do you have a moment?”

“No.” Harry says curtly. Something deep in his chest twists, Aunt Petunia’s voice whispering that he’s being unaccommodating, that he should just shut up and give everyone what they ask for without trouble for once. “I don’t.” 

He’s recently learned to say no, and while he relishes it, it still tastes bitter on his tongue, like stomach acid heaved up from an empty stomach. He remembers hunger well, remembers running from the bruised arms of his body into the embrace of his similarly starved soul, every part of him empty and wanting. He’s still stunted, one of those little trees in a pot that Mrs. Figg carefully pruned branches off of while the cats jumped off furniture in the background. 

“You weren’t at the memorial yesterday.” The boy pushes. Harry is losing his patience. “No one saw you leave your house.”

“I was ill.” Harry says, because it is easier than admitting that he slept half of the day away, drowning in decades old feelings of rejection. “I’m better now. Just in time for Ginny’s game.” He points out the window, like it will return the boy’s attention to the game, but instead more of the vultures circle around him, like him speaking was the cue they had all been waiting for. “I’d like it if you watched her play, please. She’ll be upset with me for stealing the spotlight.”

“Relationship on the rocks?” One of the faceless mob asks, snapping a picture.

Harry’s sure he looks as shocked as he feels. They’ll undoubtedly spin it into something toxic. The press has never been kind to him -- he thinks of the ghost of his past, shining in his eyes, quite often when he needs a laugh -- but since the war, they have traded in rumors more than ever. Over the course of a month, he was said to have cheated on Ginny with Neville, Romilda Vane, Seamus, and Dean. A single month! He couldn’t fathom the effort necessary to keep two partners independent of each other, let alone two partners who knew each other, who ran in the same social circles.

People clearly thought he had more time and energy free than he did.

“No, not at all.” He says, with as much confidence as he can muster. They hem and haw over his words like they’re the arbiters of the truth, like his word isn’t the only one that matters. “It’s her game, is all. I think you should watch her. I’m doing it.” 

His eyes flicker to the scoreboard. The Harpies have lost ground in the last thirty minutes, and maybe he should divert the reporters’ attention so they’re not so ruthless in the paper tomorrow, but his vision is blurry despite his glasses and he feels faint. He starts counting through the list of things she will need for him, whether they win or lose, and is down to item five when Appleby’s Seeker closes his hand around the Snitch.

The Harpies lose by thirty points. The sound of quills scratching against parchment is too much for him. He grabs whatever few belongings he came into the room with and disappears down a side hallway to the fireplaces reserved for players and their families, Flooing home before the mob of disappointed reporters crushes in on him. 

Ginny needs him. He went to the game for Ginny and now he goes home for Ginny. It is all for her, about her, inextricably wrapped up in her, these days.

* * *

Ginny is laid out over him like a blanket, and he rubs his thumb in circles at her temple as she exhales softly, a sweet release of tension. She smells of his soap, his shampoo, and his deodorant. He chooses not to complain. After all of these years sharing each other’s space, he’s learned better than to call her out on the little bits of comfort she scrounges together to call her own. He’s been housetrained, she says, when their friends ask. He isn’t sure how he feels about the metaphor, but having her here in his arms, her heart beating against his chest, smelling of him, soothes his soul.

“You played an incredible game today.” He strokes down her jaw instead, and her eyes flutter shut. “The League standings, the points, that’s not all up to you. But you did your best, and that’s what’s a measure of your worth.” 

He follows his fingers with his mouth, craning his neck uncomfortably to trace the line of her nose. Her lips are a reward, a surprise at the end of the journey, and she smiles before she realizes he’s twisting himself into shapes he’ll regret tomorrow. He’s no longer an athlete, after all, and certainly hasn’t stretched before trying this latest feat of acrobatics.

“Come on, then. On your back.” She pulls him further down the sofa with a thump, his head slipping off the arm onto the cushions, leaving his legs awkwardly bent. “I keep forgetting you’re tall.” 

She says it like he chose to be this tall, like it’s an insult to her personally. He rather likes his height. He looks in the mirror and sees his father in his height and his nose and his hair and his mother in his eyes and his hands and his smile and feels like he belongs to them, truly, in a way that the Dursleys never could have erased. He stretches his legs out, calves hooked awkwardly over the far arm of the sofa, and raises an eyebrow at her.

“Good enough?”

“As long as you’re comfortable.” She sounds awfully pragmatic before curling up on top of him like a particularly reticent cat, allergic to the idea of getting anything but her way. “Keep telling me about what I’m worth, then.” She pats his shoulder. “Go on.”

“Well, you work very hard.” Harry says. “And you always contribute to the team’s success, but that doesn’t mean that the failure goes on your shoulders too. That means that you take what you did do and leave what you didn’t to fix for the next game. They don’t have Time Turners anymore, so what’s the use worrying about this game until you play again?”

“Two weeks.” Ginny says sleepily, inching up his body until her face settles in the crook of his neck. “Against Montrose.” 

“They’re the ones with those awful Azkaban uniforms, aren’t they?” Harry asks, just so she’ll lightly slap his cheek. “What? I’m right.”

“Their colors are black and white.” Ginny says. “There’s not much they can do.”

“And then”, Harry laughs, “then they put that crow on both sides, and it’s like it’s watching you no matter what side of a player you’re looking at--”

“I should hope you’re not looking at anyone’s back except mine.” Ginny opens an eye, completely awake.

“Oh, I haven’t got eyes for anyone but you, I promise.” Harry winks. “I do have enough eyes to complain about the Magpies’ uniforms, though. They’re criminal.”

“Fine.” Ginny sighs. “They look awful. What can you do?”

“Let me finish, and then pass judgment.” Harry took a deep breath. “I buy the Montrose Magpies. I change the colors to pink and orange. Then, I let Ron design the uniforms.”

Ginny is nearly in tears by the time his plan comes to an end, forty-eight steps later, on “we debut the worst uniform design Ron comes up with on an important anniversary of a European Quidditch League Cup win”, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. She looks free, like the weight of the guilt she’s been carrying since the final whistle blew has finally sloughed away, and this brand new Ginny that was hiding underneath, all the old, dead skin of loss molted away, is ready to live.

“Professor McGonagall would kill you.” She says, in between deep breaths that only manage to delay loud, raucous fits of laughter for seconds. “She loves the Magpies.”

“And she’ll love them even more when I’m through with them.” Harry says, brimming with unearned confidence, and Ginny laughs until bedtime, in fits and starts, remembering his plan whenever things get too dull. 

No matter how little he achieves, how little money he makes, how little use he is to the world outside their flat, his presence, his words, his love mean something here. And while he used to wonder if that could be enough for him, he isn’t wondering so much anymore.


	2. where, in what country, might i put down these thoughts?

The Burrow is alive with noise and sound, but not like the stadium. It is soft and loving, the sounds worming their way into his ears with a warmth and lightness that he’s never found anywhere else. There are so many people crammed into such a small space, and he should feel sick to his stomach about it, but instead he smiles. The Weasleys are a loud, rowdy bunch, and it is difficult to remember that he is one of them as much through his own merit as he is through Ginny. They didn’t let him run away, after the war, and he doubts they will start now. Even in the depths of their despair, they always set a place at the table for him, always made sure he was eating and sleeping and making steady progress toward something. 

Charlie had come home from Romania, so Molly had sent them invitations to dinner weeks early, charmed to let her know when they’d been opened. Ron had gotten a series of angry letters for opening the letter but not responding immediately, and Harry had laughed as he’d complained about each one like it was an isolated occurrence, a surprise thrown at him from the dark depths of the universe. 

“It’s just a written Howler!” Ron had complained, as Harry had shook his head. “I was too busy!”

Harry didn’t know how anyone could ever be too busy to write back to Arthur and Molly Weasley, but maybe it was different when you knew they would always be there, in some form, to take care of you. Maybe it was different, growing up with a set of parents you could rely on, whose decisions were always made in your best interest. Maybe Harry would be reluctant to write back immediately, heart racing in his chest as he wondered if he had taken too long, if he had been nice enough, if there were any flaws in the letter that he hadn’t seen, too familiar with his own words. 

Conversations fly around the dinner table like spells in a duel. George shouts over Bill’s head at Charlie about what kind of dragon themed products the boys at the reserve might like. Ron leans back in his chair to debate the Cannons’ chances at success with Angelina. Ginny, seconds from standing on her chair, argues that the Harpies are going to crush Puddlemere United, Oliver Wood or not, to a smiling Percy who obviously started the fight entirely just to argue the opposite of Ginny’s opinion.

As much as he worries about his own place in this family, as much as he worries he has not done enough, he does not worry about hitching himself to Ginny’s rising star and living whatever dream comes next. They haven’t discussed an engagement or marriage, but he knows it’ll come someday. Neither of them is out of their teens just yet, and he’d at least like for her to be a little more established in her career before he breaches the subject. Maybe they’ll wait until her first National Team appointment, or her first European Cup win. 

They’ve got all the options in the world, now that the war’s over. 

She knows there’s a ring waiting for her, whenever she chooses to take it (purely metaphorical, Harry isn’t that much of a sap -- he’ll let her choose the design so she’s happy with it, seeing as she’ll have to wear it for the rest of her life). He knows he can count on forever with her, as much as anyone can count on anything. Permanence may not be guaranteed, but something in that neighborhood could be. Something in the vicinity of the life his parents were denied could be his.

Every day brings him closer to twenty-one and he feels sick to his stomach about it. But not here, not surrounded by the Weasleys and the sheer love they exude in every word, even when they’re fighting with each other. At the head of the table, Molly and Arthur share a fond look at each other as Fleur flicks a forkful of mash at Ron, who catches it neatly in his mouth without missing a beat. 

Beside him, Ginny leans into his shoulder with the comfortable grace of someone who knows she is going to be supported. He puts an arm around her, his hand hanging loosely over her hip, and she tips her head back to smile at him like he fits perfectly in this painting of a family at ease. His doubts melt away like the dwindling candles in the center of the table and he lets himself enjoy something for once.

* * *

Ginny shifts beside him in the bed and Harry claws his way out of a dream in case she’s hurt (in case she’s dying), in case something’s wrong. He has always been a light sleeper, ever since those early days in the cupboard, and the war has only made things worse. It’s a lucky day in Harrytown if he gets to sleep at all. 

He checks his watch. He managed two hours today. That’s a start. 

Ginny slips out of the bed and starts dressing for the day. It’s far too early for that, isn’t it? He scrambles for the memory of what time it is again, and ends up checking his watch again. In that time, she leans down for a kiss and shrugs on one of his jackets, rolling up the sleeves until they sit just past her wrists. She looks at herself in the mirror, spins this way and that, and smiles.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked, words fuzzy with sleep. “What’s-- What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, love.” The red blur moves closer, and lips brush across his temple. “I promised Demelza we’d go out today. It’s on the calendar, remember?”

“It is.” Harry agrees, not because he remembers what’s on the calendar, but because she is probably right. 

Ginny is always so meticulous about tracking her comings and goings, and the calendar being open, being theirs rather than hers alone, fights back some of her lingering worries about the diary. She is afraid of forgetting where she is, of blank spots in her memories, and documents each appointment, each meeting, each practice in excruciating detail. It is impossible for Harry to forget where she is. He is glad for it. He pays her back in kind, accounting for whatever he does down to the second (when he is in the mood to do anything at all). 

It makes it easier for her, knowing where he will be, but it has been weeks since Harry had something to put on the calendar. It has been weeks, save for the game, since he thought of going somewhere, of seeing someone, of carving out a chunk of time for himself.

“Tell her I said hello.” Harry says weakly, and Ginny tips his chin up so she can kiss him properly, ignoring the fact that he probably tastes like licking the sole of a shoe. “Be good, okay?”

As he watches the red blur leave, shutting the bedroom door gently behind herself, he resolves to get up before she returns, at least to see when she’s meant to be back.

* * *

By the time he gets out of bed, hours later, he’s forgotten the calendar exists.

He loses hours in scrubbing dishes that have been collecting in the sink, in hoovering the carpet, in organizing the spice rack alphabetically, then by frequency of usage, then by amount remaining in the bottle. He doesn’t hum or whistle while he works, still hasn’t quite realized cleaning can be fun, can be calming. A familiar voice, dark and dusty, whispers in his ear that he is good, that he is making himself useful, that they cannot be rid of him now, and he melts back into his ten year old self easily, ticking task after task off the list. 

It distracts him from the fact that Ginny is gone, that she might not come back, that there are Death Eaters still lurking around every corner, around every bend in the road, waiting for the blood of a hero to slake their thirst. And Ginny ventures out into this world without a thought, paints it gold and green and all the other colors she’s come to love, while Harry waits and hides like a coward, visiting his past selves like old friends, knitting the disparate parts of himself together into something resembling a whole.

His hands are red, cracking and raw by the time he hears something like the door opening, the soap having dried them out like raisins, and he shakes off the dust that’s collected in his brain, bleeds back into himself in fits and starts, like each part of his body is coming back to life separately. He knows the process of hiding well, of closing all the windows and doors that show the nasty, broken truth of him to the outside world, and boards himself up. He never got the hang of Occlumency, but he knows this intimately, painfully, thoroughly.

He barely has enough time to shove his hands in his pockets before Ginny comes bursting into the kitchen, glee clear on her face and the ghost of a song he’s never heard before lingering on her lips.

She embraces him before she notices his hands have not come up to hold her, before she notices how painstakingly the house has been cleaned, how their home smells of disinfectant and soap and years of resentment that Harry has tried to make into something worthwhile but failed, time and time again. It’s sickening, disgusting, a reminder of the fact that no matter how hard he tries, some part of himself will always live in the cupboard under the stairs, locked away so it won’t hurt anyone, so it won’t do anything too freaky--

“Harry?” Her voice is patient, penitent. “Harry, come back to me. There you go.” She’s rubbing feeling into his hands, a steady murmur of background noise fed into his ears by her touch. The static fades slowly, petering out like the tune of an ice cream truck streets away, and he can see her clearly, too sharply defined, so much that his eyes hurt from the sight of her. “What’s wrong, love? What happened?” 

“I forgot.” He says quietly, because that should be enough, shouldn’t it? “I forgot you were going out. I-- I didn’t know where you were.” 

His hands shake in hers, and he isn’t seeing her anymore, isn’t feeling her anymore. Instead, Vernon’s hands are grabbing his shoulders hard enough to bruise, shoving him into a wall, his mouth spraying spittle in Harry’s face as he yells loud enough that the neighbors must be turning the volume on their television up. They had to, to ignore what was happening right in front of them, to ignore what was being done to the freak who lived next door in the name of justice, in the name of repayment, in the name of earning his keep. 

He comes back to himself all at once, lightning in a bottle, and her arms are tight around him, his weight supported entirely by her. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, every syllable grating against his brain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Ginny. I’m sorry.”

“I should’ve known you’d be tired, after the game.” She sighs, and how doesn’t she get sick of this, rocking him like a child as he chases the feeling of belonging? “It’s okay, love. I know you can’t control them. I know you didn’t do this on purpose.”

But maybe he did. 

Maybe he is exactly as sick and conniving as Aunt Petunia always told him he was. Maybe he is trying to keep her all to himself. But even as he thinks it, he sees holes in his own logic. He would never be selfish enough to claim Ginny for himself. Not when she has so much to give the world. Not when she is so brilliant, so smart, so caring, so beautiful. He would never dare to think all of that could be for him.

“I want to be better.” Harry says, peeling away from her slowly. She looks worried, eyes wild and cheeks flushed red. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t-- I shouldn’t impose like this.”

“I’m always coming back, Harry.” She says, voice as hard as steel. “Whenever I leave, I’m always coming back.” She rubs her thumb along his knuckles. “Whoever I’m with, wherever I’m going, it’s only temporary. I know-- I know you find it hard to remember that.” She doesn’t know everything he’s been through, all the little moments that weigh him down, but she knows enough to guess right. She knows enough to guess that it’s the cupboard this time, creeping toward him menacingly over the past few days to swallow him whole today, to spit him out into her arms, wet and slimy and utterly disgusted with himself. “I know it’s difficult for you. Waiting for me. But I’m always coming back, okay? I’m always coming home.”

“I forgot. About the calendar.” He can see the path he should’ve taken now. When he got out of bed, he should’ve gone to check the calendar, as he’d promised himself he would. But instead he had seen the dishes on the countertop and something within him had spoken with Aunt Petunia’s voice and the whole day had been a loss. “I should’ve looked. Then I would’ve known.”

“You should have.” Ginny says, and his heart falls into the pit of his stomach, acid creeping into all of the crevices of the muscle, feasting on what little happiness he’s secreted away for himself. “But it’s alright to forget, every now and then. I forget things too.” Her hands drop his to smooth along his shoulders, framing his neck just tightly enough to remind him she’s there, but not so tightly that he’ll think of Vernon before her. “You can’t remember everything every time. You shouldn’t feel sorry about that. I mean, the house is cleaner than it’s ever been. I should thank you.” She laughs, but something about it is off. Her eyes are too bright. “I only wish you didn’t clean like this, that’s all. But this isn’t about me. This is about you and how you need to stop saying sorry for feeling bad.”

“It’s about you. It’s about us.” He shakes his head slowly, feeling distinctly off balance. He leaned into her, their breaths blending together, his forehead leaning against hers. “And-- And I wish--” His throat seals up before the words could leave it, but maybe that was for the best. She doesn’t need to hear him say what was in his heart, that he wishes she would find someone better and leave him behind to rot. 

It would work out better for her, in this brave new world, to not waste her love on a marked man.

“You wish what?” She asks, every word measured.

“I wish you could be here forever.” He says instead. “I wish we could just have forever. An uncomplicated forever.”

* * *

“Sorry I’m late.” Harry slides into his chair at the rickety white metal table outside the cafe with ease. Ron and Hermione, who have been waiting there for longer than either would like, smile like the sun’s come out after months of hiding instead of expressing any consternation. They’re treating him delicately. He thinks his scar might have prickled at the thought, long ago, though it hasn’t done anything of the sort since the war. “It’s been too long since we’ve had some time to ourselves. Just the three of us.”

It hadn’t been intentional, and no one had drifted away -- between work and relationships and putting the world back together, all three of them had been forced to make time for different things. Like Atlas holding the sky together, all of them had changed essential parts of themselves to account for what everyone else needed. And part of that had been losing the moments they might have shared to strike out on their own. 

“It has been.” Hermione smiles. She looks well, her skin bright and clear, her eyes no longer shadowed by the weight of worry. She looks like she’s slept. Harry’s well aware that he doesn’t. “But that’s fine. We’re all here now.”

They settle into a comfortable silence, the three of them soaking in each other’s presence, the same sweet drug that had kept them all huddling close for warmth like little birds in a storm all through their years at Hogwarts. They order food and exchange a few soft bursts of eye contact followed by giggles while they wait, punctuated by small talk about the weather (which is surprisingly good) and the Cannons (who are surprisingly bad). Hermione’s desk job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures mostly seems to consist of fighting the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, by Harry’s reckoning, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut about it. He nods along to Ron’s story about being promoted to senior management at the Diagon Alley branch of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes so George can focus more on the new Hogsmeade branch, and smiles. 

Three sandwiches are placed before them and Harry looks between them nervously for a few seconds before Hermione takes a cursory bite out of hers. He’s never felt right being the first one to eat. He supposes it’s yet another Dursley thing that lives in his head, the idea that he shouldn’t be the first one to eat, that there was someone more worthy that he was taking that opportunity from. He nibbles at a corner of his sandwich thoughtfully while Ron talks around new project ideas, saying just enough to keep them hooked but not enough for any eavesdropping competitors to pin the product down. 

“How are you doing?” Hermione asks. He’s been dreading this question since he sat down. “You haven’t mentioned what you’ve been doing at all.”

“I haven’t. Been doing anything, that is.” Harry scarfed down another few bites of his sandwich to avoid answering. “Mostly… keeping to myself, these days. Trying to figure out what I want next. I’ve been, uh, thinking, and maybe the Aurors isn’t for me.”

“It isn’t?” Hermione looked elated, downright thrilled. She manages to keep it out of her voice, but her eyes are bright in the way that means she’s gotten something she wants. She’s trapped his misery in her web of things to do, another task crossed off her list. Is this what she’s wanted all along? “Then what do you suppose you’ll do next?”

“I didn’t-- I didn’t mean that.” Harry mumbles, hunching over his food protectively. He’d rarely had the chance to call food his own unless it was hidden away under floorboards or closed in the tight circle of his arms. And open space only makes the worry worse. “I only said it. Because-- Because they won’t have me. But you look happy about it.” 

The ugly, conniving part of his heart that almost landed him in Slytherin whispers that she wanted him rejected, that she’s been waiting for him to fail. The Ministry is Hermione’s domain -- of course she wouldn’t want Harry muscling in, silly, oblivious Harry who found trouble in every place he went, racking up enemies like cat hair on a black shirt.

“She’s right. I’m happy about it too.” Ron cuts in. “I wanted to be delicate about it, but it’s not making you happy, Harry. It’s making you worse. I’ve been worried for a while and Hermione’s been telling me to keep it to myself, but… Trying to pass these exams has got you all obsessive again.”

“Obsessive?” Harry asks. He’s fully aware that he sounds unhinged, but he can’t stop it. He can’t turn it off. When he gets like this, it’s impossible to settle himself, to find anything resembling relief inside his body. It feels like every inch of his skin is buzzing, trying to lift itself away from his bones and melt into a puddle, like his arm had when Lockhart had made his bones disappear with a wave of his wand. “Me? Obsessive? When?”

“Fifth year. Sixth year. The year we were on the run. This past year.” Ron counts them off on his fingers. “I thought not going back to school would solve it, but…” He sighs, exasperated, playing with the cuffs of his button up shirt. “This isn’t good for you, Harry. I only want the best for you and this isn’t it. The Aurors isn’t it. It wasn’t it for me, or for Hermione, and… it isn’t the best for you either, no matter how responsible you feel for all of this.”

Harry chuckles emptily, and Hermione’s fingers stroke along his wrist. He feels nauseous. He swings wildly back and forth between being hungry for touch, for contact, for reminders that he is here and whole and deserving of love, and wanting nothing to do with others, wanting distance and separation and a house in the woods somewhere that no one will visit. He doesn’t know which he wants now, torn between two extremes, needing Hermione’s friendship, her validation, her touch, and needing to be anywhere but here, with anyone but her, feeling anything but this. 

“We’re only saying this because we want you to feel better, Harry.” Hermione’s fingers whisper along the bare skin of his forearm. He feels like a live wire, sparking and sputtering at her every touch, ready to burn, ready to shock, ready to ruin something. “We want you to be happy. And this isn’t making you happy. You can’t see it, but… this is upsetting you. You’re putting yourself in a position where-- where you’re just reliving all of the horrible things that have happened to you over and over again. And maybe you thought that would be good for you once, but it’s not good for you now.”

The worst part is that she’s right. Hermione is always right, punishingly, stressfully so, and she knows she’s caught him out when he flinches at her words. The smug, self-satisfied look on her face is more than he can handle. Has she been waiting for him to collapse in on himself? Has she been waiting for him to betray any small sign of weakness? Are even his friends waiting to sell him out?

“Don’t you want me to be happy?” He squeaks out instead. “Putting them all away, making sure they can’t hurt anybody else… That would make me happy. Why can’t you want that for me?”

“Not like that.” Ron says. His eyes are dark with regret. “Not like that.”

* * *

Harry kicks his shoes off at the door, a dull, thudding ache in the back of his head, not caring as one bounced off the wall just a little too hard. Even his eyes feel sore. 

Ron and Hermione, for all their faults, were good at committing to a party line and pushing hard toward a shared goal. He’d seen it so many times, had it work out in his favor so many times. He’d forgotten it could be used against him, weaponized like pepper spray, Ron and Hermione working in perfect synchronicity to dissect a problem down to its most bloody, revealing parts. He stands in the hall, trying to steady his breathing, when Ginny wanders in, a slice of toast with jam in her hand, in nothing but one of the threadbare shirts he’d kept from his time on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

“What?” She asks, after he’d spent much too long staring at her, jaw slack and eyes bugging out of his head. “Do you want some?” She holds out the slice of toast, and he, impulsively, takes a bite. “Alright, then. You can keep it. I’ll make myself another.”

“Thanks.” Harry accidentally tears the toast in half, staring, absolutely mortified, down at the ragged piece in his hand. “So it didn’t go well.” He says, already sure that it’s fairly obvious. “With Ron and Hermione.”

“Do you want to talk about it? Or would you rather fly for a bit?” Ginny asks, and Harry breaks into a grin, relieved that she’d proposed the second option. She really knows him, has always known what he wanted and needed. 

“I don’t know where my broom is.” Harry admits. 

It had been months since he’d taken it out, since it had seen any use. 

“That’s alright.” Ginny smiles. “I do.”

They retrieve their brooms from the hall closet, and Harry even manages a few excited whispers before they kick off, dodging clouds as they speed through the air. The world seems so much smaller from up in the sky, Harry’s worries shrinking to the size of a pinhead as he rises higher and higher. He looks over his shoulder to see Ginny laughing, so joyful that it hurts to look straight at her. 

He would’ve never gotten himself another Firebolt, after the war. But she did.

He will always be glad that she’d bought it for him with her first paycheck from the Harpies, then gone on a joking rant about how she was going to spoil him for the rest of their lives while he stared at it, head empty and heart thudding in his ears. He’d held it in his shaking hands, the wood too solid under his fingers, each bristle of the broom’s tail feeling too expensive for someone as irresponsible as him, as dangerous as him, as unquantifiably, inexplicably much as him. She’d asked him to accept it and he had.

In more ways than not, it had felt like a proposal. He hadn’t needed a ring to hammer home the point. 

The Firebolt is proof enough that she is staying.

“Hermione said I’m obsessive.” Harry mumbles, the words swallowed by the wind. 

“What’s that?” Ginny asks, louder than she should. “Speak up, Harry.”

“She says I’m obsessive!” Harry yells, instantly feeling shame. He’s glad he’s not looking right at her -- he’d have melted off his broom and pooled in a puddle on the streets below if he had to see her reaction. “Well, I guess Ron said that, but if he’s said that, then they both believe it!” He feels awfully lonely, all of a sudden. He’d thought this would make him feel better, but it only drains him, like water out of a tub, leaving an overwhelming emptiness behind. “She says I’m just reliving the war because I think it feels good. Because I’m comfortable with it.”

Neither Ron nor Hermione had said the last thing, but he thinks it often. He worries about it often, in between memorizing spells, laws, and evasion tactics for exams that may no longer come. It keeps him up at night, leaving him shaking and disoriented as he claws his way out of dreams about the war. He hasn’t known how to say the words, or even when to do it, before it had occurred to him that saying it now might lessen the impact. 

“You know Hermione’s not always right, right?” Ginny shouts over the wind. “You don’t have to think so! You’re not Ron, so it’s optional!”

Harry blinks in surprise. “I don’t.” He says, as if he’d never thought it before. “You’re right.”

They turn back toward home, the journey passing in the blink of an eye. Harry touches down a little more messily than usual, nearly tripping as he readjusts to having both feet on the ground. Ginny suffers no such trouble, dismounting with such grace that Harry, for a moment, feels something resembling envy, or he thinks he would if she weren’t literally a professional. It’s taken him quite a bit of work to get to that thought process alone. He doesn’t want to touch upon too many other sore spots, but he recognizes that now that he’s opened the door, Ginny will want to talk.

“Can I have five minutes?” He asks, and she nods knowingly.

“I’ll make us some hot cocoa.” She says, and he nods sharply before stomping up the stairs to change into something warm, hoping that will fix his mood.

* * *

He pads down the stairs, Ginny’s sweatiest Harpies shirt stretching tight over his shoulders, the sleeves choking his arms. It smells like her. He smells like her. The thought is comforting -- her sweat marking his body, marking her territory, marking him as belonging to her. Wearing her clothes grounds him in a way nothing else does, when he is this far into his own head, and more than a few of her shirts have made their way to his side of the closet these days.

His eyes sweep over the carpet in front of his feet, noting each and every pattern drawn by their feet, by the rhythms of their life. He still hasn’t figured out how to look people in the eye when he talks to them about feelings. Sometimes, he’ll hit upon the balance of honesty and eye contact by accident, but more often than not he is too honest, looks up too little, shakes a little too much. 

More often than not, he is a cluster of reminders that something in him was viciously, intentionally broken in that cupboard.

“Where do you want to start?” Ginny’s hands are clasped tight around her mug. “Hermione? Ron? Somewhere in between?”

“Wherever.” Harry says on instinct, taking the mug she passes to him. He inhales the steam, his nose a little too close to the surface of the liquid, and he yelps when the tip of his nose gets scalded. He flails backward, knocking his shoulders against the back of the chair, and sighs deeply, shaking his head. “Maybe you ought to pick where we start.” He gulps down a fairly large portion of the cocoa to prove he’s not afraid, which he, unsurprisingly, ends up regretting. “They said I’m just doing it because I have to. The studying, the tests. That I feel like I have to be an Auror because it was what I was good at. What I was good for.”

“And do you agree?” Ginny asks, flicking her wand. The spoon in her cup swirls around and around. It’s dizzying, hypnotizing, and Harry zones out on the motion for a second, eyes focusing but not quite. 

“Somewhat.” Harry admits. “I think-- well, it was all I had, wasn’t it?” He doesn’t know how to explain the joy he’d felt during his career consultation in fifth year, when he’d realized that he could make good money from doing the world’s dirty work. He doesn’t know how to tell her how he’d rationalized the fact that he was doing it anyway, so he might as well continue. “It was all I knew. Cleaning up after others.” 

He remembers scrubbing counters at the Dursley’s under Aunt Petunia’s supervision, eyes burning from disinfectant fumes, and wonders if ridding the world of evil isn’t an extension of the theme.

“So I might be a little obsessive.” Harry says, and Ginny bursts into laughter.

“You think?” She asks, shaking her head.

“Just a little.” He holds his finger and thumb just a centimeter apart. “That much.”

* * *

“You pour the batter into the tin, Harry, not all over the countertop!” Ginny laughs as the muffin batter slops all over the tray and onto the floor. Harry laughs along, genuinely thrilled at his ability to make a mess and leave it where it is. Maybe talking was healing. Maybe it was good for him. “Harry, it’s getting everywhere!”

He steps in the puddle of batter and drags it across the kitchen floor with his foot in a wide, sticky stripe, and Ginny kisses any remaining hesitation better.

* * *

Harry misses the invisibility of his early years at Hogwarts. He knows he wasn’t invisible, knows he was already feeling constrained by the limits of his own fame as early as his first year, but that is nothing compared to now. Back when his defeat of Voldemort was slowly being revealed to have been conditional, back when layers and layers were being peeled away from the mystery of it all by Dumbledore’s hands, people paid him little notice compared to now. Now, they’d seen Voldemort collapse to the ground, eyes empty and body slack, and Harry’s wand pointed at him when it happened.

Now, what he’d done was public, the truth floating free into the air instead of hidden within a half-demolished cottage. Now, there were witnesses who lived alongside him. Now, everyone cared about what he was doing, how he was putting himself back together, where he was going next. Because there must still be great things in store still, right? There must still be potential, right? It can’t be over already. He can’t be all used up at the ripe old age of nineteen-turning-twenty, because that would mean everyone else had outlived their use long ago. 

All he had wanted was to visit his parents’ graves. All he had wanted was to say hello to the parents that had died for him. To pretend, for a moment, that he was having a normal conversation with two people he had never been lucky enough to know. That they were speaking to each other across a dinner table, dancing around the truth of how he was really doing. It was easier to talk with his parents -- they couldn’t respond, couldn’t ask the same biting, brutal questions that Ron, Ginny, and Hermione could. They could only listen (if they were listening, if there was anything beyond this world at all).

And for that sin, he is running down an alleyway, the hood of his jacket thrown over his head, cursing under his breath. He twists his body just enough to avoid scraping his hand against a brick wall, and Apparates just as another camera flashes behind him.

He never asked for this. He never wanted this. 

He reappears inches from the fireplace, disoriented and frazzled, and walks on shaky legs toward the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water from the sink. Aurors had to do paperwork, had to field the papers, had to do press conferences on high profile crimes. Did he want that? If visiting his parents’ graves was excruciating now, how would it be if he was an Auror, on top of everything else? How much more would people watch his every move, worried that he was hiding something about a Death Eater, or a murder, or some secret, nonexistent adventure the Daily Prophet was whispering in their ears about? 

He drinks the glass down in one gulp and fills it to the brim again.

He hates being watched. He hates being picked apart for whatever slivers of content cling to his bones. Maybe he isn’t meant for something in the public eye anymore.


	3. i find my wanting life implores no novelty and no disguise of distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're taking the cats to the vet today, so ch 3 of no voyage is coming out a few hours early! (three, to be exact, because i love the galaxy brain of putting chapter three out exactly three hours earlier than i meant to. clap for my rotten tennis ball brain.) 
> 
> my beta (the lovely blattgefluester), said "ppl gon get whiplash going from chap 2 to chap 3" when editing it for the first time, so if you've got a cervical collar, now's the time to snap it on. just for safety's safe, obv. personally, i don't think it's *that* bad, in the grand scheme of things i've written. but i did also describe it in the same conversation as "nuclear depression war", so please take my words with an entire morton salt container's worth of salt.
> 
> hope you're all safe and well out there. if you're not in the place to read a fic about mental health, please protect yourself first! the fic will always be here, so pick the time to engage that's safest for you. 
> 
> xoxo,  
> gossip girl*
> 
> *i just learned this meme a week ago and it feels right given the tone of this chapter

He’s in the ragged, half-burned down house at the end of the road again and he knows where he has to be. Where he has to go. The place it took him too long to find the first time he was thrown into this memory. To find the girl it took him too long to find the first time he was thrown into this memory. The fire still rages (it started in the laundry room and the sharp smell of gasoline should be a warning, but Harry ignores it, like he always does) but Harry ignores it. His concern is the girl. His concern is her safety. He finds her curled up in a corner of a bare bones bedroom, books too big for a child of her age piled up on the shelves, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.

“Come with me.” He begs, like he did the first time, the second time, the millionth time he played this memory over in his head. He smiles, puts his hand out ever so slowly so her eyes can track the motion (so she knows he is not going to hit her), does all the things he wished adults would’ve to make him comfortable. He gives her enough space to feel in control, but edges closer, so she knows he is not disgusted by her, so she knows he wants to help but respects her boundaries. “Come with me. It’s not safe here. He’s going to come back. He’s going to come back and I don’t want you to be here when he does.”

The child shakes and shivers and Harry remembers light streaming into the cupboard when the door opened, after days of darkness, stabbing into his head like Aunt Petunia had thrown all of her kitchen knives at him at once. She curls further in on herself and he remembers a frying pan, a meaty fist, the sharp crack of a belt buckle against skin. She babbles to herself and he remembers sitting perfectly still in the cupboard, telling himself to be good so they’ll let him out earlier.

“Please.” His voice cracks. “Mabel, come with me. I’m an Auror. I can help you.” He taps his badge twice and she looks up, eyes drifting to the soft glow of the metal. “I’ll take you somewhere safe. You don’t have to be here anymore.”

She doesn’t ask how he knows her name.

He doesn’t think to explain.

Children like them do not ask the same questions that others do. Children like them don’t care about the same questions that others do. It is a shared secret, a community chest of avoidance tactics that everyone draws from like elephants at a waterhole. Everyone is keeping different flavors of the same secret, a choose your own adventure book of pain and longing and envy.

So many children got lucky. Why had all of them been failed by every adult who could have saved them?

Why were there so many ways to fail a child in the first place?

Why was failing a child so easy to do?

“But Daddy.” She whispers, face twisting in grief, and he comes undone, if he was ever “done” in the first place. He was eleven, the first time he had to worry about what the Dursleys might do if he escaped their clutches, but Mabel is so unbearably young. She is so young to be making the choice to leave the life she knows behind in favor of an unknown, to be having these worries. “But what if he--”

Harry had been confident that anything at Hogwarts would be better than living with the Dursleys, when Hagrid had knocked down the door. Was Mabel? Had anyone asked her before?

“He doesn’t matter, Mabel. You matter. You matter. You need to be safe, Mabel.” Harry’s words take on a desperate, pleading edge. “Come with me, Mabel. Please.” He says her name like a good luck charm, like it will save them both. “We’ll find you somewhere safe to live. You don’t need to live here anymore.”

He kneels in front of her, reaches out for her hand. He smells the sharp burn of an accelerant, hears footsteps down the hall. The father is back. It is too late. It is getting warmer and warmer and Harry is sweating, but he can’t leave Mabel alone. He can’t let her suffer alone.

He cannot let her die alone.

He knows that inequity too well, knows the particular scream of the soul that resonates within one’s chest when you realize no one is coming to save you, when you realize you are not valuable enough for saving.

This memory always plays out like this, simply because it is a memory. This is what he chose, the first time he inhabited this world.

He chose Mabel and the Aurors didn’t choose him because of it.

Does he want to be in a group that wouldn’t let him choose the child first?

The rest of the memory blurs. He stands between the father and the child, tackles him to the floor, and his skin burns but Mabel will not die in more pain than she is already carrying. He will not let it happen. It does not matter what happens to him so long as he dies saving someone else. So long as his death means something, for even a second. The Sorting Hat had once told him he wanted to be noticed, but Harry thinks it only scratched the surface.

He has always wanted to be useful.

He has not always wanted to be right.

But this feels right. Wanting every child to be safe, at any cost to himself, feels right. They gave him this situation because they wanted him to fail, to choose his beliefs over the mission, to run when he could stay, when he could give the gift of a merciful, shared death over a lonely, tortured life. When called on to compromise what he believed in, he’d stood strong. He’d said no.

The Aurors wanted him to say yes.

They wanted him to leave Mabel, every Mabel, and run, so he could keep being useful to them.

Now, for the first time, he wants to be _right_.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, breathing heavy and searching instinctively for Ginny. Her side of the bed is empty. Where is she? Has she finally left? Is she finally sick of him? No, the Harpies are playing a series of away games. She left three days ago, and she’ll be back tomorrow. Or at least she said she would be, but you can never promise things. Harry knows better than to make promises he can’t keep. He knows Ginny knows better than to make promises she can’t keep. And she’d put it down on the calendar, hadn’t she?

He digs himself out of the covers and runs headlong for the kitchen, needing to see the date and time in Ginny’s handwriting, in the pink, sparkly gel pen from the package he’d bought her for their six month anniversary that she still uses. He thinks it’s just magic keeping it running these days. By all rights, given how often she used it, the ink should’ve run out. But it is still going, still writing, still making beautiful art out of even the simplest words. That is the kind of gift Harry wants to give, the kind of gift Harry wants to be, the kind of person Harry wants to be.

He traces his fingers over Ginny’s message, the way her y’s and g’s curl where his loop, and his heartbeat settles. He presses his forehead to the paper and breathes in the scent of paper, muddled with the sharp interruption of ink, and thinks of the love with which she would’ve written down the date and time of her return. He thinks of how she would have thought of him while doing so, thought of how desperately he wants her home, thought of what it does to him to see her leave, thought of what joy it brings him when she comes home.

He is faithful, loyal, the need to belong to someone, to something, beaten into him by life and circumstance, but she’s never made him feel ashamed about it. She’s never made him feel bad for being a former Mabel (a current Mabel), one of so many that barely escaped with their lives. There are so many more Mabels waiting in cupboards under the stairs, in empty, desolate second bedrooms, in Grimmauld Places and boarding schools.

And if the Aurors won’t take him, he can’t find them. He can’t help them.

If the Aurors won’t let him fix this, they will all suffer alone.

Some of them will die alone, like the Aurors wanted Mabel to.

He tries to steady his breathing, crossing his arms over his chest, his hands locking around his upper arms as he sinks down onto the ice cold kitchen floor. He rocks forward and back, like he used to in the cupboard, confusing a punishing, bruising grip with love, until his breathing settles. He peels sweaty hands away from his skin, wincing at the ache in his muscles. It’ll bruise. Ginny will ask questions. He will answer them halfway, exchange nuggets of meaningless truths for her continued silence on bigger issues. This cycle is deeply familiar. It’s what he’s always done. It’s what they’ve always done. It wears on them both, but until now, it seemed necessary.

What if he changes things? What if this is the time he makes the difference? What if this is the time he says fuck you to all the expectations on him and talks?

But she’s away for a few days. And he’s got magic. He can hide them, can make them disappear, can play pretend at perfect behavior. Even before magic, he knew how to do that. Even before magic, he had to do that. He was in enough danger as a little brown boy on Privet Drive, with his too big clothes, beat up shoes, and wild hair. He was dangerous enough to their way of life, to their perfect, suburban world, where everything matched and fit down to the smallest particle of dust.

Silence, his oldest friend, is tempting, but the spiteful side of him is still raw and angry from the reminder that the Aurors never wanted him to do the right thing, and it’s got more power over him than he likes to admit. He is still exposed, still bleeding and irritated and upset, and he scribbles down a letter he hardly remembers the words of and sends it off with their owl.

There’s a world of difference between not telling lies and telling the truth.

He’s finally chosen his side.

* * *

> Dear Ginny,
> 
> Hope all is well! Go Harpies! Feeling poorly. NIghtmare about ~~mable~~ ~~Mbael~~ the aurors but I handled it I’m fine. See you at home soon.
> 
> Love,  
> H

* * *

Ginny’s gear bag falls with a thump behind the sofa, some of the contents spilling out through the badly closed zipper. Harry hears it from their bedroom, the hairs at the back of his neck standing back up, every inch of his skin prickling. His mind registers an intrusion, a danger, a murder, before the fog of confusion clears. It has to be Ginny. She’s the only one who can get in. She is the only one who would, even if she isn’t due back for a few hours.

He is still puzzling out the details when he hears her footsteps on the other side of the bed, the soft bump of her knee against the doorframe. She always forgets about the right side of her body, when she’s off the room, never quite allocates enough space for herself.

“Harry?” She asks. “Harry?” He rubs at his glasses, hoping that will clear the blur from his eyes before peeking over the bed at her. He knows what he must look like, after hours curled up against the bed, legs long fallen asleep and hair sticking up in a thousand directions from how often he’s run his fingers through it. He braces himself on the mattress before rising to his feet, taking a few hesitant steps before running toward Ginny like a dog let off his leash. “Oh, there you are.”

He worms his way into her arms, ignoring how she reeks. She must’ve come straight from the game in Montrose, must’ve gotten the letter in the changing room and Apparated straight from there. First, he thinks of the media appearances the Harpies always do, the reporters who ask them questions, the pieces the papers write. He opens his mouth to ask a question, but the words stall in his throat, tying themselves up like little hostages.

“Harry, I read the letter--” She sounds equally hesitant, equally worried, and he squeezes his eyes shut so tight that he thinks they might pop.

“I had a nightmare. It’s not been the only one. I’ve been thinking about this since-- since the letter came, since they told me they didn’t want me.” He says, the words ripping their way through him. “I’ve been thinking about Mabel. That was the girl’s name, the one in the test. The one I was supposed to leave behind.” His face crumples. “I didn’t leave her behind, Ginny. I waited with her. I stayed. I stayed with her until it was over, until we were both dead, and they told me they couldn’t trust me for it. You have to understand me. You have to believe me. You have to--”

“Is that what happened?” Ginny asks quietly and he realizes that he hasn’t told her this. That this has always remained secret, shamefully buried behind his ribs. “You waited with her so she wouldn’t die alone? Is that what they did this to you for?” She kisses his cheek gently, turns his face toward hers so she can lean her forehead against his lips. “I knew that’s what you’d do, Harry. And it’s because you’re a good man. You wouldn’t want anyone to die alone, much less a child. You know what it’s like, to be alone like that, to face-- to face death like that.” Her voice crumbles like Hogwarts’ walls once had, under the assault of a thousand spells at once. “We all do. Those of us who fought, we know, but most of all you. Anyone who says that that isn’t the kind of man you want leading doesn’t know what they need.”

“Ginny, they were right.” Harry grits his teeth. “On a real mission, I’d be a liability. A waste of resources. I’d be compromising the safety of everyone around me. I can’t let what I want, what I feel get in the way. That’s reckless, isn’t it? That’s reckless, that’s a betrayal of what they stand for!”

“In the Chamber…” She breathes in through her nose, trembling beneath his touch. “In the Chamber, I was a child and you came to save me. You risked everything. The Basilisk bit you and-- and still, even when Tom did what he did, you stayed, until the very end, until we knew we could escape. You were ready to die there with me, if it came to that, and you were only twelve then. That stupid, noble heart of yours is what’s pulling you toward the Aurors.” She curls a hand around the back of his neck. “If you're still willing to risk your life for any child who might need it, then maybe it’s worth trying to find people who want to do what _you_ want done, not trying to do what the Aurors do.”

* * *

Teddy is sat in his high chair, telling Ginny about his brand new stuffed animal (a manticore, gifted to him by Luna), though he calls it “Montybore” and seems quite thrilled that it has a man’s head, a lion’s body, and a scorpion’s tail. Harry thinks of Remus, of how Remus would’ve loved to see his son at this age, just starting to string together sentences and share his thoughts with the world.

Teddy places a kiss on Craig the Montybore’s nose before digging into his bowl of pasta, attempting to feed Craig bites every so often in the name of friendliness.

Harry and Ginny’s eyes meet, during one of the short pauses in which Teddy’s mouth is occupied with a spoon, and he smiles gratefully. He will never stop being thankful for how easily she has joined him in opening their home to Teddy, to this little piece of his past, present, and future that he will never stop loving. Teddy lobs a piece of broccoli at Ginny with surprising accuracy, and she catches it with ease, passing it to her other hand behind her back before throwing it underhand onto the tray attached to the highchair.

Teddy, awestruck, has no choice but to eat it.

“Nice save.” Harry laughs, and Ginny winks at him. “My Quidditch star.”

Teddy tucks into his meal after that, though he comes to expect tricks here and there, and once he’s done, Harry steals him away for a bath, washing chunks of carrots and cauliflower out of his sunshine yellow hair. He watches Teddy splash around in the tub gleefully, marshalling his boats into a line before trying to stack them on top of each other, and thinks about how he only participated in the Second Task because there was something he couldn’t live without in the Black Lake.

Teddy giggles as Harry fills a cup with bathwater and gently pours it over his head and Harry thinks of his head being pushed down, down, down by Aunt Petunia’s hand, to teach him a lesson, to make him shut up, to make him make less noise--

Teddy will be allowed to make whatever noise he wants in this house. And so will Victoire. And so will any children he and Ginny might have five, ten years down the line. They will all be loved and wanted and whoever they are or become, Harry will love them for it. He would never think to do anything else. He knows what it’s like to want for love, what it’s like to watch others get the love and fulfillment you are hungry for. He knows what it is like to desperately wish that someone will call you lovable, that they will say you are more than good enough for them.

He knows what it is like to wait for an apology, an acknowledgement that you should have never had to doubt that you were loved, that you will never get.

While he’s alive, no child will ever wait like that again.

“I’m never going to let anyone hurt you.” He whispers, as he and Ginny tuck Teddy into bed. “I promise, Ted.”

“I won’t either.” Ginny joins in, her hand rubbing circles at the small of Harry’s back, and drops a kiss on the shell of his ear. “As long as he’s got us, he’s going to be okay. Don’t worry.”

“Us.” Harry says softly. “Yeah. We’ll do everything we can.”

“Everything Remus and Tonks would’ve wanted for him.” Ginny confirms. “Everything Andromeda isn’t already giving him, we’ll fill the gaps. We’ll make sure he’s everything they wanted.”

Harry’s breath catches in his chest. Here she is, this woman out of his wildest dreams, speaking his innermost desires into being, weaving words around his most nebulous thoughts until they have a shape, a meaning, a form.

“You know, you should think about writing. Once you’ve tired of Quidditch.” He says, trying to hide how much her words have affected him.

She has always had such a talent for cutting him to the bone, dissolving away any of the pretenses he wears like Invisibility Cloaks against the world.

“Maybe I will.”

* * *

They rent out a function room in the back of the Leaky and spend a full morning stringing up lights and charming decorations before people start filtering in. Lavender and Parvati come arm in arm and Hermione leans over to whisper “that’s new, did you know about that?” in Harry’s ear like he keeps track of anyone these days. It is easy to slide back into the dynamics of their school days and forget how they’d ganged up on him at lunch, even if it had been for good. They have always sought his betterment -- it’s not something he carries any illusions about -- but sometimes their methods feel a little rough for his own good.

“You’re not mad at us, are you?” Ron asks gently, and Harry shoves him back awkwardly, trying to maintain some semblance of playfulness in the practiced slackness of his arms.

“Course I’m not.” He says, slinging an arm around Ron’s shoulders. Their relationship has changed since the war ended, since Ron and Hermione moved into the paths they’d long ago decided were right for them. It had taken Harry time to realize that change wasn’t automatically worse, that they hadn’t forgotten the times they’d fought for each other’s lives because they weren’t constantly moving as a group of three. “We’re friends for life, Ron. Can’t see what we’ve seen without our bond being unbreakable.”

Ron laughs, as if he can’t believe he was worried in the first place, and leans into Harry’s side as they watch Ginny attempt to stick a poster to the wall by throwing it at the double sided tape strips that Hermione has so thoughtfully placed. Hermione is complaining about alignment and parallel lines and Ginny keeps throwing the paper like it will catch on the glue by sheer coincidence. She is jumping up and down and yelling like the child Harry had never known. Harry loves that about her. Her persistence, her passion, her willingness to chase what she wants, no matter how ridiculous others tell her it is, even if it is as hopeless as fighting physics tooth and nail.

Seamus and Dean arrive first, placing a tinfoil covered tray on the center table as if the Leaky isn’t catering tonight, before buzzing around Ginny like a pair of overly excited bees. Harry prefers it that way by far -- Ginny is the friendlier of the two of them and is far better with remembering details about lives that pass Harry by far too easily. She loves people, loves the mystery and the intrigue of reconnection, and Harry is glad to leave that work to her and hover in the corner of the room like a particularly pissed off bat. He’d once made fun of Snape for that and now, he can’t imagine why -- the idea of eyes on him makes his skin crawl.

Dennis Creevey enters next, messy haired and looking as if he hasn’t slept in months, his eyes darting around the room nervously before Ginny embraces him with a shout. He looks more like Colin with each passing day, or what Harry thinks Colin might’ve looked like if he’d ever gotten the chance to grow up, but his shy, retiring demeanor is all his own. Colin’s old camera hands idly against his chest, and Harry wonders if he should ask whether Dennis is planning to use it before deciding it’s too much pain to navigate at the moment.

Cho Chang, Michael Corner, and Padma Patil all enter next, with a crew of little Ravenclaws that joined the DA while Harry was on the run, and Harry waves to Cho with a smile. They’ve never been close since they broke up, but he still takes comfort in seeing her face in a crowd, a reminder that she survived, same as him, to live on and live loudly. Michael Corner and Ginny are another case, going through the steps of an elaborate high five before yelling in each other’s faces like old men at a bar.

If Harry hadn’t known they’d broken up quite messily, he’d have never guessed they’d dated at all.

The room fills slowly, more and more familiar faces trickling in, and Harry is sucked into a few conversations by proximity, laughing along to old jokes and making crackpot theories about the Harpies’ chances at the League title this year. He’s a fair hand at conversation when it counts, he just prefers groups of people he knows well. He shakes a parade of hands, smiles at unfamiliar partners of DA members whose faces are but shadows in his mind, before retreating to Ginny’s side.

“Here to guard me, hm?” She tugs at the collar of his shirt, pulling his head down to hers. She smells like his cologne and the gum she’s chewing. “Was wondering when you’d be back.”

“I’m right here!” Ron protests, though he’s halfway across the room, as if he knows what Ginny's up to, and she laughs, cheek pressed into Harry’s chest.

“Boring.” Harry intones, with all the gravity of a church bell, and Ginny dissolves into giggles, like he’s just told the best joke in the world. The background noise of their friends falling in love with each other again fades to a comfortable blur, with her in his arms.

She tells him half-remembered facts about Dean and Seamus’ newest puppy, and Lavender’s new business venture, and the history book that Anthony Goldstein is writing as they sway together to the music playing out of the beat up radio in the corner. It’s some old Celestina Warbeck tune that Harry remembers from the Weasleys’ kitchen and she catches him unconsciously counting out beats under his breath like McGonagall had taught him for the Yule Ball, kissing the tips of her fingers before pressing them to his cheek.

It feels all the more intimate for its clumsiness, like they are grasping for each other in the face of some great unknown again. His heart drifts back to sunlit days at the edge of the Great Lake, of chasing each other over hills in an attempt to find some private place to trade kisses, and knowing in his heart of hearts, that there was only love in abundance ahead of them.

“I love you.” He lets the words hang between them for a moment, frightfully unanswered, unacknowledged, before Ginny breaks into a slow, lazy smile, like a cat who’s got the canary trapped between her paws.

“You absolute fool.” She says fondly. “I love you too.”

* * *

Ginny shivers, her fingers pressing into Harry’s upper arms so hard they’ll leave marks behind, eyes wide open and unseeing. He thinks of the Chamber, of being twelve years old and watching her lay so still before him, her soul, her life bleeding into the diary, and wishes that stillness hadn’t been replaced with panic driven thrashing, fingers digging deep, mutual pain in the name of recovery.

His heart had jumped into his throat at the sight of her hurting then, even before love and all its accompanying prices to pay, and he’d thought of the life she might never see, the future he could see for her. The future she had been cheated out of, same as him, by a man hungry for power. Even then, he’d known there were great things ahead of Ginny Weasley, even if he was continually surprised that she’d found them while coming back to him every night.

Ginny is all motion, her feet kicking at his shins in a stark contrast to his memories, her head shaking back and forth as her teeth chatter in her mouth. She gasps and he mutters sweet nothings as he inches further and further into her space, until his forehead can rest against her shoulder, until her hands leave his arms to come tangle in his hair, until he feels like wrapping his arms around her won’t be read as a threat anymore. He feels woefully inadequate in these quiet moments. For all he knows how to wrench victory from the maw of evil beasts, he does not know how to keep her safe from her ghosts.

“Tom.” She chokes out. “It was Tom, again.”

He will never understand what it was like to be an eleven year old girl plied with lies and promises that were never going to bear fruit, but he knows betrayal. He knows the empty, poisoned gestures of pity, the ways people prey on lonely, impressionable children to buy their loyalty. He thinks of Dumbledore with greater reservations these days, finds himself stuck somewhere between Elphias Doge and Rita Skeeter as he truly processes what he saw in Snape’s memories.

No one could stay, or he might not be willing to die for a cause. He hesitates to call it manipulation (though it surely was), hesitates to call it traumatic, because he survived, didn’t he? He survived and he’s made a life and he is okay now, doesn’t wake with the words “raised like a lamb for slaughter” on his lips every morning. Or he likes to think he is okay, Ginny would say, if she weren’t falling to pieces in his arms right this moment.

“I’m sorry.” He says, because that is all he can give her in these snapshots, these shards of their lives reflecting tiny tragedies of their history. Sympathy and words and touch, carefully crafted for maximum impact, a weapon, sharp and deadly, to be held out against the encroaching darkness. “I’m sorry he hurt you. I can’t--”

He won’t do himself the disservice of saying he cannot imagine what she has been through, because he has imagined it, vividly, for years, every new detail she lets loose a thousand nightmares concentrated into the spaces between a few words. He won’t do her the disservice of saying he wished he had been better, that he had done more, because she deserves better than for her rescue, her brutal, painful fight to be okay again to be about him.

He is learning not to center himself in the story of their lives by default now, but it is a process.

She has always understood, but he doesn’t want her to have to understand anymore. He wants her to be happy, to not remember the troubles in their past, or if she has to, to remember them only as a mark of how far they have come.

“I can’t always protect you. And you don’t need me to protect you, I know, but I’m going to keep trying because that’s who I am and that’s who you deserve, even if you don’t need it. You deserve someone who’s always going to be your ace in the hole. Just in case you need me.” He says. “I’ll do my best. Like you do for me. Like you’ve always done.”

She relaxes against his chest with a soft little sigh, and he kisses her forehead before pulling her arm out from where it’s crookedly tucked under his shoulder. She’ll scream bloody murder if her hand is sore in the morning and he wants no part in that. He’s not sure if the words made sense to her, if they held the meaning that he wants, or if they were just comfortable rhythms in her head, the music of a familiar voice, but he feels like he needed to say them.

Maybe for himself, but maybe for her as well.

Those words sound like they might one day become wedding vows.

He is smiling about that still when he falls back asleep.

* * *

“It wasn’t me, with Tom.” She clutches her mug like a teddy bear. He keeps his distance, because the tension in her neck is enough proof that she does not want to be touched, but he lingers regardless, unable to stop himself. “It was Victoire. He was-- He’d told her the same things he told me. He was going to use her the same way he used me.” She hangs her head. “I just-- I was watching him do it. I was watching and I yelled and yelled but no one heard me. What was I supposed to do?”

He swallows down a mouthful of water from a mug with the words “Live, Laugh, Love” emblazoned on it (like they are doing _any_ of those things at the moment), and considers his response. It never seems like she has to think about what to say, like she always has something locked and loaded and ready for when he falls into crisis, but he has always been slower, more deliberate.

“Your fears are real. They’re-- they’re based on real things that happened to you. And Victoire’s a baby. She’s-- she’s changed our lives, so it’s only natural that old memories would start to come up. They have for me too.”

Bill and Fleur had sent a precious little photograph of Victoire bundled up in a baby blanket first thing in the morning. He had left it out for Ginny to find because it had made him nauseous to see her like that, not a single adult in the frame, no one watching for what might happen if an edge of her blanket falls over her nose or mouth, or if she gets too warm or too cold. It should have been cute by all rights, but Harry had spent a night on a doorstep, only milk bottles for company, before spending the next god knows how many years in a cupboard under the stairs.

Echoes still filter down the line sometimes, old wounds reopening to remind him that they’re there.

“All we can do is make sure those things don’t happen. He got to us because we thought we didn’t have anyone else. Because we both… wanted to be seen, in different ways. You were the only Weasley sister. I was… we all know what I was.” This draws a fond smile from her and he feels a little braver for it. “So we make sure she doesn’t want to be seen because she’ll be, already. If anyone loses her in the shuffle, we’ll be there. What good are aunts and uncles if not for that?” He laughs, a wet little hiccup, and he sees the moment the grief for herself melts into concern for him. “No, don’t do that. We’re talking about you right now and-- and, well, there’s nothing we can do about it other than being there for her, and that’s what we’ll do.” He says gruffly. “If we make sure people like Tom can’t get to her, then we’ll have done a good job.”

“I love you.” She says, reaching out toward him, and he nearly shatters the mug when he drops it on the table in his haste to get to her. He slots himself into her lap easily, testing the limits of the chair they’d repaired far too many times to be safe, and she laughs, a genuine little giggle, as she lifts his chin to kiss him soundly. “You’re good at telling people what they need to hear.”

“I was dead scared the whole time.” He admits, and she laughs again. “Dead scared that I was going to say something wrong and upset you, or make things worse. Not in that order, but… maybe in that order.” He shrugs. “I can only guess what you want. Go off of things I know will work. But I can do my best to bend those things to what you need, can’t I? What I’m saying has to make sense to you for it to be useful.”

“It does.” She smiles, a fragile little ghost flitting between security and the unknown. “Otherwise I won’t use it.”

“Someone’s got to help you use that stubbornness as a positive.” He touches the tip of her nose to his own. “Let me help you give that nerve a direction.”

“You really think we can change things? For Teddy and Victoire? Just like that?”

He’s been expecting her to bring this up from the second they’d spoken about giving Teddy everything Remus and Tonks would’ve wanted for him. Ginny sits with her problems, mulls them over until she’s made sense of all the tangled feelings running off in every direction from them, letting off steam in little bursts until she feels safe enough to have the difficult conversation. She always gets there. It’s just a matter of time.

“I really think so.” He nods. “We know what it is we don’t want to do, right? Should be simple enough to avoid it.”

“When you say it like that, anything sounds simple.” Her hands slide up his back, slow and deliberate, like she’s searching for something. She sounds like the child who he rescued from the chamber, and the teenager followed him into the Department of Mysteries, and the woman that emerged from the flames of the Battle of Hogwarts all at once, all these people that are wrapped up in this cycle of saving and being saved. “Should be simple enough to avoid it.” Her smile melts into a half-frown. “There were so many adults who watched what happened to us and didn’t say a word.”

“So we’ll be the ones who talk.” Harry cuts in. “We won’t watch any more kids get hurt.”

He doesn’t mean to cut her off, doesn’t mean to invalidate her thoughts. Her silence sends him reeling into a string of spiraling thoughts that he cannot quite control, a wave of rejection leaving him light-headed and regretting everything he’s ever done. He won’t apologize for what he did but he won’t be proud of it either.

So much of his life has fit into that category.

“You make us sound like we’ll be good at this. This whole aunt and uncle thing.” Her eyes flicker up to his, and he reads the secret she’s unwilling to voice within them: she is just as afraid of bringing a child into the world as he is. “Like we could actually do it right.”

“I think we can.” He smiles hesitantly. “Maybe we’re not all the way ready for being in a kid’s life like this, let alone more, but we’ve got to practice somehow, right? And this way, it’s on Bill and Fleur to clean up our messes. There’s no way they’ll raise a terrible person and besides, Ron and Hermione will offset anything we do.”

“We’ll teach the kid to dye her hair in the bathroom sink and buy her clothes with spikes on them while Hermione bemoans the fact that we’re taking time away from her education.” Ginny grins, and Harry almost weeps with relief, because she looks relaxed again, looks like she feels okay. “Ron will side with us, though, so long as Hermione never finds out about it.”

“So let’s keep only good silences then. Let’s make space for her until she’s well and truly sick of us.” Harry says, and they stay tangled together in her chair like that for what feels like hours, whispering promises to each other that feel like guarantees.


	4. while the birds in the trees sing of the circle of time

Minerva McGonagall still cuts the stern, severe figure she had when Harry was in school, so much so that he struggles to look her in the eye when he sits across the table from her at the Hog’s Head. He can’t fathom the fact that he is meeting Professor McGonagall at the Hog’s Head, and it takes him a couple minutes to realize that he’s not being called to her office to apologize for some entirely justified bending of the rules. He’s been out of school for more time than he was on the run, between his sixth and seventh year, and he’s been a grown man by wizarding standards for much longer. 

“Hello there, uh, Professor.” He says, because not calling her Professor feels like a crime against humanity, and she smiles kindly at him. In her office, he’d have earned a biscuit. Here, he has to pay for them. Being an adult has been nothing but one disappointment after another. “How have you been?”

“Pleasantly surprised by the new crop of Gryffindors.” She says. “There’s two of them that won’t stop charging at the suits of armor, Laura Walker and Megan Clarke, both Muggleborns, because some fourth year told them the suits would challenge you to a fight if you were worthy.” She chuckles. “I forget, sometimes, how easy it is to convince an eleven year old they are special.”

He remembers the quiet pride underlying her words from when it used to coat his name like a suit of armor, protecting him against the world. He misses being one of her little lions, misses the knowledge that someone was watching over his shoulder for his own good. Time and distance have brought him perspective, and he’s realized that of all the adults in his life, she’s one of a treasured few that sought his well being above all else most of the time, her self-interest blessedly minimal.

“It’s not difficult.” He says, even as his mind and heart turn to Ginny. Ginny, who McGonagall had let slip through the cracks just like him. “That’s half the danger, isn’t it?” He worries his lower lip between his teeth as she stirs her tea, smiles at Aberforth when he gruffly asks if anything needs doing, at their table. “I wanted to ask you something, but… I promise I’m not trying to get by on my name or the War or anything, I’m just curious.”

“I’d never assume you were, Potter.” McGonagall says brusquely. “Of all of the children that fought in the war, you’re the least likely to do so.”

“Children.” He repeats tonelessly, because that’s what they had been. Children, some legally and some not, but all far too innocent for the carnage they’d seen at Hogwarts. So few acknowledge it these days, in favor of painting over the truth with marketable gimmicks. “Thank you.” 

He clears his throat awkwardly, takes a sip of his Butterbeer and hurriedly wipes the foam from his mouth as he remembers he’s supposed to be an adult about this. Why had he gotten Butterbeer in the first place? His teeth are going to rot and Hermione will be furious.

“What is it?” McGonagall doesn’t intend to sound snippy, but Harry reads it into her words regardless, well practiced from years of adults who wanted nothing more than for the torture of speaking to him to be done. The worst part of it is that he knows she’s not doing anything wrong, that she’s asking a perfectly normal question, and here he is, handing her a knife and asking her to stab him for crimes he hasn’t done.

“I wanted to know… If I wanted to be a teacher at Hogwarts, how would I go about that?”

“Well, you’d need a Mastery in whatever subject you meant to teach. I would recommend Defense, of course, but you already knew that.” She smiles at him, and he tries not to search her eyes for proof that she is faking it. “You’d need to find someone with the F.R.O.G., Further Requirements of Graduate Study, that is, that you wish to achieve that wants to take you on as an apprentice. The apprenticeship would last as long as your mentor decided before you sit the qualifying exams, which are administered by the Ministry. After passing the exams and getting your teaching certificate, you could apply to teach at Hogwarts or Beauxbatons or any other school you wanted, so long as you know the language. Or are good enough at translation spells, but obviously, they prefer the former.”

“And who could I ask?” Harry squirmed in his chair. “Who’s got one?”

“In terms of Defense Against the Dark Arts… Amelia Bones did hers in Criminal Justice. Remus Lupin did his in Dark Creatures.” McGonagall says thoughtfully. “Barty Crouch Senior did his in International Magical Law. Bill Weasley has his in Cursed Artifacts.”

“Bill’s got one?” Harry asked, shocked.

“He started it during the war, or shortly before. Continued it through correspondence, when he had to go into hiding. He sat the exams a few days before his daughter was born. I’ve yet to congratulate him on passing. I should write a letter.” She makes a note on her napkin with a wave of her wand. “No one outside senior Aurors has done Combative Magic in some time, but it would suit you best, I think. With all you did with the DA, that would be the most natural fit.”

“Did Dumbledore have one?” Harry asks quietly. “He had to, to teach, didn’t he? He was a teacher when…” Tom’s name comes to the tip of his tongue but goes no further. “Before he became Headmaster.” He finishes clumsily. “Before my parents were at school.”

“Elemental Transfiguration.” McGonagall says woodenly. Harry feels a spark of spiteful joy that someone else is conflicted about Dumbledore’s loss still, but it washes away quickly. For years, Minerva McGonagall and Molly Weasley were the closest that he had to mothers. He cannot bring himself to resent either of them for anything. “He trained me.”

“Elemental Transfiguration.” Harry says reverently. “That sounds so cool.”

“So does Combative Magic.” McGonagall says. “If you’re up to it.”

“I might be.” Harry says, trying to sound casual. “If that’s how I’m most helpful.”

“What do you want?” McGonagall asks. “Because you have done above and beyond your fair share in being helpful. Now, your only responsibility is what fulfills you, and Miss Weasley. So would that make you happy? Would it help you achieve your goals?”

“Do I have to answer now?” Harry asks, after a rather intense pause, and Professor McGonagall laughs, covering her eyes with a hand. 

“Of course, Potter.” She says, shaking her head. “You have all the time in the world to make your decision.”

* * *

Kingsley had been the one to ask Harry to join the Auror training cohort and the one who had told him to leave. It felt like all of their conversations would be colored by that strange mix of gratitude and hesitation, but Harry sat across the ornate mahogany desk from Shacklebolt, back straight and a smile on his face. If he was going to make a show pony of himself, he was going to do it well. 

“It’s for the orphans, this ball. A charity engagement. If you wouldn’t mind, it would lend a lot to their cause, the Boy Who Lived speaking on their behalf. There are still many people looking toward you for guidance, Harry.” Kingsley’s voice is like rubber cement, washing over Harry like a second skin, each word tightening the noose as it dries. He always feels like he’s done something wrong when Kingsley pauses, looking at him for input. “Many wizards would jump at the chance to fund something the Boy Who Lived stands for. As a way to repay their debt of gratitude to you.”

“They don’t owe me anything.” Harry said. “I want to make that clear, if anyone thinks so. I didn’t kill Voldemort out of the goodness of my heart. I killed him because he was dangerous and he needed to be stopped.”

“Of course.” Kingsley says, like he’s placating an ornery toddler. “You haven’t answered my question, Harry.”

“I’ll do it.” Harry says. He rises from the chair mechanically. “You can tell them I’ll do it.”

“You’ll need an Auror detail, just to make sure you’re safe--”

“I went through the training the same as they did.” Harry snapped. “I don’t need to be babysat.”

“Harry, I understand that you’re upset about your results. If I were in your position, I would be too.” Kingsley’s words were flat and friendly, a face painted on wood masquerading as a genuine smile. “But you’re important to us, to the Wizarding World. You should be protected, even if you can protect yourself.”

“I’ll talk.” Harry said. “That’s all you’re getting from me.” He rose from his seat, shaking out his hands. They kept prickling, like someone was sticking needles into the pads of his fingers to see if he would react. “I don’t need an Auror detail or fancy things. I’ll speak for those kids because they deserve it. This isn’t… This doesn’t mean anything about the state of things between myself and the Aurors, or the Ministry, or anyone else.”

* * *

“Kingsley wants me to speak at some benefit for kids.” Harry picks at the Indian takeaway Ginny had grabbed on the way home. He always gets to thinking about his father, when they pick up from this particular restaurant, about the childhood he missed out on because of one cruelly cast Killing Curse. Maybe it’s the nostalgia, or maybe it’s the dream of a world in which he felt like he belonged, or maybe it’s both, but the food always tastes better for it. “Kids orphaned by the war. I’ve already said yes, so I’m not trying to weigh the costs and benefits, but… what do you think?”

“I think it’s something you care about and you’ve said you’ll do it, so I’ll help you.” Ginny stabs a piece of chicken with a spoon instead of getting up and grabbing a fork from a drawer hardly two meters away. “You’re the right person for the job. I’d rather it be you than me.”

“I just… I don’t like the idea of all of them looking at me.” Harry shovels a few bites of food down to distance himself from that revelation. “I don’t want them to see me. Is that weird? I want to be the one speaking because I’ve got more perspective than most, but I don’t want anyone listening to me. I hardly ever listen to myself and, well, I’ve survived this long, haven’t I?”

“I get it.” Ginny says softly, and Harry pushes his plate away from himself to look Ginny over. “If someone had told me so much of being a Harpy was about being a role model, I would’ve thought a little harder before signing the contract.” She smiles wryly. “I don’t regret it, but I feel like I’m being watched. Like they’re waiting for me to step out of line so they can write a dozen articles about how I’m no longer worth what Holyhead’s paying me. The men in the league can do whatever they want, but they catch me with a single drink in my hand and I’m some kind of scarlet woman. I breathe ‘wrong’ and they turn it into a billion different conspiracy theories. I’m pregnant, or you’ve broken up with me, or I’m on my period, or something equally farfetched. If I say anything about it, I’m ‘too aggressive’ or ‘too loud’ or ‘too much’, and if I don’t, I’m ‘too weak and fragile to play Quidditch’. There’s no way to win.”

“I’d say it’s not like that, to make you feel better, but we both know it is. I’ll make the joke better when you’re feeling up to it, but here’s a placeholder for something about a scarlet woman and you having red hair.” Ginny shakes her head, rolling her eyes, and Harry knows he’s managed to make her feel at least a little better. “Have you read the paper? Who am I cheating on you with this week?”

“Neville.” Ginny snorts. “And we’re polyamorous with him and Luna now, by the way, though they didn’t use that wording exactly.”

“Excellent.” Harry grins. “I’ll be sure to let them know.” He pulls his plate back, digs around for his fork, which seems to have disappeared into the curry. “You said you feel like you’re being watched. Do you want to talk about it? Would that help?”

“It might.” Ginny shrugs. “Do you want to hear it?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods, trying not to seem too eager. “Yeah, I do. I want to know what’s on your mind.” The words sound awfully creepy to him, so he shakes his head. “No, let me redo that one.”

Ginny looks more amused than anything else.

“I want you to feel safe with me and that means telling me what you think if you’re comfortable.” Harry smiles, satisfied. “There. That sounds intelligent. Kind of. Intelligent enough.”

“Should I talk or are we going to be listening to your feelings all night?” Ginny jokes.

“Uh, yeah, obviously.” Harry rubs his hands together. “Where do you want to start?”

“It feels like they want me to be someone I’m not. This perfect role model, inspiring people to think they can do anything they set their minds to. Because of the war, because of the Harpies…” Ginny sighs. “It feels like they’ve built up this idea of who I am that’s nothing like me. And I have to play that role or otherwise I’m letting everyone down. It feels…” She reaches out for him and he takes her hand, squeezing it tight. “It feels like the diary again, like I’m getting all of these instructions that I can’t make sense of that I’m supposed to follow to make someone happy and all I can do is mess up. And Quidditch is tied up in it the same way Hogwarts was and-- I just don’t want to lose loving this. I don’t want Quidditch to turn into something dangerous the way Hogwarts did.”

She pulls her hand back and clears her throat. “Sorry. That was a lot to bring up.”

“You’re allowed to have feelings too.” Harry runs his hand through his hair. “It doesn’t have to be about me all the time. It’s actually not about me right now. It’s about you. So you should keep talking, actually, because talking about emotions can help sometimes. You know. When you’re comfortable talking about them.”

Ginny nods, her smile stretched tight by the effort of holding back laughter.

“Part of the problem is that no one takes the Harpies seriously. Everyone gives the credit to our fathers and brothers and male partners and assumes that they’re the reason we got into Quidditch or are playing professionally. We’re treated differently than the mixed gender teams, and don’t even get me started on the men’s only teams, it’s like they play in some mysterious secret league that we can’t even think about.” She shudders. “And I guess that’s difficult for me, because--”

“Your brothers are your brothers. And I’m me.” Harry swallows hard. “Oh no.”

He’d always known, on some level, that whoever he was with would always suffer the injustice of being grouped in with him by the media. He’d always known that they would be asked invasive, overly personal questions that they’d have to talk around, had always known that it would be difficult to love anyone when all the eyes in the world were on him. 

He’d known it had bothered Ginny, but he hadn’t realized how much. 

“Are you thinking about disappearing into the woods, changing your name, and living as a Muggle until you’re inevitably discovered by a superfan, at which point you’ll have to contemplate the ethics of murder to avoid your location being leaked to the Daily Prophet?”

She knows him too well.

“Yeah.” Harry admits. “A little bit.”

“I’m tired of being asked about what diet I’m on or what my boyfriend’s doing instead of the game I’m playing. I want to be asked about the play I designed. I want to be asked about my favorite make and model of broom. I want to be asked about the weird superstitions I have about my equipment!” 

“You haven’t told them about the glove oiling thing?” Harry asks.

“No one’s asked.” Ginny scoffs.

“Maybe they’re right.” Harry grimaces. “It smells like cat poop.”

“Shut up. It helps me catch better.” Ginny scowls. 

“You don’t need help, Ginny.” Harry says, squirming in his seat. “You’re… great at catching?”

“I am.” Ginny smiles proudly. “Thank you. And… thank you for listening to this. I know it was a lot of feelings at once and I know you’re uncomfortable with that sort of thing, but I’m glad you were willing to listen. That you did.”

“You don’t have to thank me for having ears.” Harry frowns. “I’m your partner like you’re mine. If you’re thankful I’m listening, then maybe I haven’t been listening enough. Maybe I haven’t been helping enough. I want to make sure that you do get the questions you want to answer instead of the rubbish they’re asking you now.”

“That’s sweet.” Ginny takes his hand again, weaving their fingers together. “But you know it won’t be easy, right? Everyone is going to be against you again.”

“I’m used to it.” Harry winks. “It’ll be a wonderful change of pace. I want people to stop talking to me about myself, you want people to talk to you about something specific, so I’ll just leave ominous hints about it. Or I’ll stand menacingly behind you at press conferences. Whatever I have to do to get you what you want, I’ll do it.”

“Why do you crave adversity?”

“It’s a mystery.” Harry shrugs. “Maybe it’s the ghosts of my past, glistening in my eyes.”

* * *

Harry has crammed himself into the corner of the sofa, a no man’s land of personal space between himself and George and Angelina, to scribble on a notepad he’d snuck into dinner in the inside pocket of his jacket. George and Angelina are whispering to each other about the merits of the Tutshill Tornadoes and the Montrose Magpies, and Harry resolutely ignores their conversation, because he, as a fan, is not supposed to be privy to free agency discussions. He does hope Angelina doesn’t pick the Tornadoes, though. Their uniforms are rather drab.

These dinners are different without Fred, and maybe it’s the speech he’s writing, but Harry feels Fred’s absence like a punch to the gut. He knows he’s not the only one, but the Weasleys have only just started to say his name without pain bleeding through every letter, so he keeps Fred’s name to himself, letting it weigh down his heart.

The phrases he wants to say swim in his head, waiting patiently to exit into the world as fully formed thoughts, and as he writes them down, one by one, his whole being feels a little lighter. The pressure of saying the exact right thing has been weighing heavy on him since Kingsley had asked, since he’d accepted, since he and Ginny had talked it over. He wants to help, to do something meaningful instead of putting another bandaid over the gaping wounds that the Ministry hasn’t even looked at since the war ended. 

He remembers the beginning of his fifth year in violent detail, remembers rumors and pointing fingers. His head aches. He thinks of going to bed, his wand clutched tight in his hand, wondering if Seamus would open the door if one of Voldemort minions came calling. If Sirius and Peter had infiltrated the castle, how hard could it truly be? 

Now, at the ripe old age of almost twenty, he recognizes that he shouldn’t have been worrying about that in the first place. He recognizes that the adults around him should’ve done better. He recognizes that he was just a child, whose focus should only have been on finishing his assignments before class, instead of worrying about the safety of his peers, about the security mechanisms of a castle thousands of years old. 

Instead of trying to do Albus Dumbledore’s job for him.

Something cracks on the floor and Harry’s eyes shoot up from the notepad, every nerve ending crackling with anxiety, ears primed for the sound of yelling. He calms down in slow baby steps. It was just a plastic cup. Teddy’s plastic cup. He’d knocked it onto the floor in his eagerness to get out of his chair, so he could play with baby Victoire, who is still squirming and kicking her feet on her baby blanket. 

Everyone is alright. 

No one is dying. 

His scar is just a scar.

All is well.

He writes the words down at the end of the page, underlines them three times, then sets the notepad and pen on the end table. He’s got a nephew and a niece to play with and they won’t be small forever. He certainly wasn’t, but he can make sure they’re children for longer than he was. He can make sure that they can hold onto the simple graces of innocence until they’re truly ready for what lies beyond.

* * *

Teddy wriggles on the carpet, screaming as Ginny tickles his stomach. She’s fond of roughhousing with him, but Harry still can’t wrap his mind around it. Even the smallest of yelps sets his nerves on edge, because he’s never known harmless screaming. He’s never known fun in the particular way that makes you feel full to bursting with joy outside the bounds of a Quidditch pitch, and certainly not with an adult involved. The strange rituals of playing with small children are often beyond him.

He’s excellent at lullabies, at holding Teddy through his tears, at reading bedtime stories and making sure Teddy eats his dinner. This isn’t his domain. Ginny excels at making Teddy laugh, at horsing around with him, at chasing him around the flat. He’ll leave this to her. He crouches down to ruffle Teddy’s hair before slowly padding into the next room and closing the door. 

Maybe he’ll learn to play before his own kids come along. It is just too complicated right now, to look at another orphan and not project his own fears.  
Teddy is a helpless child. He can talk and walk and eat baby carrots by himself with varying amounts of success, but Harry was that old when Aunt Petunia dragged him up onto the footstool to start cooking meals and washing dishes. Harry was that old when he snuck envious looks into Dudley's bedroom and wished he had something more than his cupboard. He looks at Teddy and can hardly imagine how an adult would consider such a small boy ready for the kind of manual labor he was doing at the Dursleys’. He looks at Teddy sometimes and thinks of him at Hogwarts, dodging attempts on his life while the adults stand by and do next to nothing. 

It is hard to separate himself from the people he cares about, to detach himself in a healthy way, to look at them and see something other than the pieces of himself that cling to them, begging them not to leave.

He doesn’t know what to say at the Ministry. He’s got a speech written, but it means nothing to him yet. It’s nothing he would’ve wanted to hear. Not as a child, not as a teenager, not now, as an adult. He doesn’t know how to navigate the balance between pandering to people with money and begging for mercy for children that should get it without question. He doesn’t want to convince people these kids are worth it because he knows they are all worth it. 

Why can’t others see that?

On the other side of the wall, Teddy yells “no more, please, no more” with nothing but joy in his tone and Harry’s heart flutters in his chest, his eyes burning. He knows Ginny. Trusts Ginny. Loves Ginny. She would never hurt Teddy. But that is where his mind always goes, the well treaded paths in his mind beaten into him by years of abuse and neglect. He is tired of the worry, tired of the doubts, tired of the all consuming hyperawareness that comes with living the life he is trying to keep Teddy from.

He crosses out the last line of his speech, the words “all is well” feeling like poison, and thinks of Teddy, thinks of how happy he is when they pick him up from Andromeda’s. He thinks of how Teddy smiles with all the joy in his heart at the sight of him. He thinks of how every child should have somewhere where they’re loved outside their home, how every child should have adults they can trust in abundance. He thinks of how far money can go but how little it can actually do, when you are trapped in a house full of terrors beyond imagination and no one wants to listen to you.

“All is well” feels dreadfully dishonest. He can’t say those words when the Auror department wants him to leave a child behind to save himself to pass their stupid qualifying exams. When parts of the Ministry are still in shambles, when paperwork from two years ago is still sitting in damp filing rooms. When Muggleborns and half-bloods wrongfully imprisoned in Azkaban are getting hollow apologies in place of reparations. 

All cannot be well when everyone supervising the list of students receiving Hogwarts letters in 1991 missed the words “Cupboard Under The Stairs” under his name. 

And the worst thing is that he cannot be the only one.

He scraps the whole speech.

He can do better. These kids deserve better. 

This speech will be better.

* * *

The haunting string music stops when Harry walks up to the podium, for which he is eternally grateful. It’s been reminding him of Nearly Headless Nick’s Deathday Party, which was somehow less than a decade ago. He’s a few months shy of twenty now and he was a few months past twelve then. He was twelve and he took his friends to a ghost’s birthday party while a fragment of Voldemort’s soul possessed his girlfriend, then eleven, and a snake used the pipes to nearly kill students (and one cat). Sometimes the events of his own life feel foreign to him.

“I don’t think I need to introduce myself.” Harry starts, thumbing at the edge of the index cards he’s scrawled his speech on. “Everybody here knows me anyhow.” His attempt at a joke earns a few scattered laughs. “Thank you so much for coming here tonight. It’s an honor and a privilege to be able to help out. The war isn’t far enough away that we can forget about it. Many of us in this room, if not all of us, won’t have the luxury of doing so.”

He looks down at his fingers, which are drumming on the podium top, and tries to force them still, flexing them stiffer than a corpse might. 

“Some of us fought. Some of us protected people who fought. Some of us helped classmates or friends escape.” He looks around the room in the hopes that he might seem natural. “And some of us were too young to do anything, but lost everything anyway. And those are the people we’re here to help tonight. The babies and kids who lost everything because of the war. Because a lot of us, myself included, know what it’s like to lose everything to a war. I lost my parents, my uncles, my chance at a normal childhood with my family. I lost the chance to grow up around magic.” 

“I was lucky enough to come to the Wizarding World and find a family. To find friends. To find love.” He spots Ginny, Ron, and Hermione at one of the center tables, whispering to each other as they poke at what looks like a napkin, but definitely isn’t. Hermione had warned that there’d be Bingo cards passed around to their friends of things to expect Harry to say or do. He should’ve expected her to follow through. “And I want all of these kids to have the same chance, but preferably with a little less property damage.” 

People begin laughing in earnest at that, probably remembering that Harry had blown enough holes in Hogwarts to make it look like Swiss cheese, by the end of his academic career. 

“Part of giving them all those chances is ensuring that they’re physically safe. That they have somewhere to go when they’re scared or in danger. And part of that’s making sure that they’re emotionally safe. That they have safe friends and adults to go to. And all your donations tonight will go toward advancing those causes.” He adjusts his tie. “Now, more than ever, we need to intervene. We need to make sure Wizarding children, our children, regardless of blood status, are taken care of, from the moment they’re born to the moment they leave us.”

The clapping begins, and Harry soaks it in for a moment before it begins to bother him, begins to sound more like the rattling of bars on a cage than genuine praise. 

“The last two years have been about physical rebuilding. About not only restoring, but expanding the Ministry, St. Mungo’s, Hogwarts, and many other cultural centers. What lies ahead is harder work than that, but for the sake of these kids, and all the kids that will come after them, we should give it our all. Because then, maybe, we can make sure they’ll be children for longer than we were. For longer than I was. Thank you.”

* * *

Handing Teddy over to Andromeda is always an ordeal, but this time, he goes back to his grandmother quietly, pressing tons of wet, slobbery kisses to Harry and Ginny’s cheeks before waving goodbye as they step into the fireplace. Harry and Ginny pick up the evidence of his presence in silence, putting away toys and the crib Teddy had slept in just last night until next time. The flat feels like a bit of a science experiment after, everything neat and shiny and clean, and Harry and Ginny stare at each other across the kitchen countertop and smile. 

“We survived.” Ginny says. “How does it feel?” She holds a fake microphone to his lips and Harry closes his hand around hers. “Well, well, cozying up to the media, I see. That’ll be noted.”

“I like seeing you with him.” Harry confesses. “I like seeing me with him. I want that for us, but not now. Not soon. Just… as an abstract thing, you know? Maybe five years, maybe more, maybe less. I want to get my head right first. I want to make sure I’m in a good place before I take on a whole person to be fully responsible for.”

“I like having free time.” Ginny adds. “I like having a clean bedroom. I like being the only person responsible for the puke in our house.” Harry lets out a choked off giggle and she sticks her tongue out. “I’m trying to be serious. Stop!” She swats at him and he puts his hands up in front of his face, still laughing. “A baby would jeopardize all of that, especially right now. I want to play for England at least once before we bring kids into the picture. I want to win the League. I’ve got some real chances coming in the next few years to do both.”

“I like knowing that we’re good at it, though.” Harry says. “Gives me hope that when it happens, we won’t mess up.”

“Me too.” Ginny smiles. “We’re accident proof.”

“Don’t tempt fate.” Harry grimaces. “If anyone could speak something like that into being, it’d be you and me.”

“You’re right.” Ginny winces. “What was I thinking?”

“Banned. No babies other than Teddy in this house at least until he’s in school.” 

Ginny nods decisively. “We win England, then we win the world, and then we can talk about bringing the crib out for another reason.”

“Sounds amazing.” Harry grins. “So what’s for dinner?”


	5. let me, if i can, inherit from disaster before i move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promised myself i'd post five chapters, one every saturday of may, and i did it! it's 5pm est on 30th may and here's chapter five! thank you so much for following along. i hope you like the ending. i might come back to this universe in the future, because it's been a lot of fun!
> 
> there's a lot going on in the world right now, and i would be remiss in saying anything without mentioning the extrajudicial murder of george floyd. black lives matter every single day. george floyd should be alive. so should sandra bland. so should philando castile. so should tony mcdade. so should so many, many others. all of them should still be here.
> 
> if you are able, please donate to [george floyd's memorial fund](https://www.gofundme.com/f/georgefloyd), and the [black visions collective in minneapolis](https://secure.everyaction.com/4omQDAR0oUiUagTu0EG-Ig2). if you're in the united states, please look into how you can give money or time to your local organizations.
> 
> for a list of ways you can help, including signing petitions, please visit [this carrd, which presents a list of options](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#). 
> 
> -s

George and Angelina’s house is full to bursting with Weasleys, and in the middle of that tornado of chaos are Teddy and Harry, the odd men out.

Harry had let Teddy unwrap his present before they came to George and Angelina’s, and the moment of weakness had nearly derailed the whole evening -- once Teddy had seen his toy broom, he had been nearly impossible to coax into the fireplace. Teddy had acquiesced only after Harry had promised he could practice flying in George and Angelina’s yard, and even then, he had been mighty reluctant, running out of the fireplace still sooty and sneezing with his broom in his hand to beg George to take him out.

Angelina is throwing a Quaffle at Teddy now, as he hovers a foot above the ground, his knees pinched tight around the broom handle while he fumbles for the ball. At two, Teddy’s hand-eye coordination isn’t quite as good as he thinks it is, but Angelina seems content to toss the Quaffle to him over and over again while he cheers and giggles. Judging by the longing looks Ginny has been shooting them, Harry’s sure she’ll join them before long.

How many little boys can say they played catch with professional Chasers as children? Even without considering the circumstances of his birth and his parentage, Teddy is one special boy.

“Can I join?” Fleur kisses Bill’s cheek before joining Angelina, catching the Quaffle with ease as Angelina passes it to her.

Harry’s best guess is that Ginny was waiting for Fleur to give in, because she sprints off after them, the three of them chattering to each other as they toss the ball back and forth, and occasionally to Teddy. Teddy flies in shaky, tight circles around Fleur, who pinches his cheeks and calls him sweet nothings in French, while Ginny plaits blades of grass together into a bracelet. Angelina holds court among them like a queen, directing the conversation with ease as she had once in the Gryffindor locker room.

It’s funny to think that years ago, Ginny and Fleur getting along would’ve been an answer to prayer. Now, it feels as if their disagreements have been forgotten, water under yet another one of the bridges that have been built since the war. They laugh with each other like Harry imagines siblings might, sharing secrets and jokes alike like currency.

He’d wanted a sibling once. He hadn’t made the mistake of asking anyone how one went about acquiring one. He can imagine the trouble it would’ve gotten him even now.

Bill bounces Victoire in his arms as she spits bubbles, meaty fists pressing into his skin hard enough to leave red marks behind. It’s been only weeks since Harry saw her last, and in that time, it feels like she’s nearly doubled both her length and neck control. She’s smiling at everyone now, shy and sweet, and suddenly, she feels like a person rather than a little, loving sack of bones.

“She feels like a real baby now.”

Harry doesn’t realize he’s spoken the words aloud until Bill laughs.

“She does, doesn’t she?” Bill grins. “Now that she’s past the boring bit where she lies in one place and doesn’t do much. She’s got personality now.”

“Personality?” Harry asks curiously.

“Plenty of personality, like her mother, this one.” Bill snorts. “Taking after her Aunt Ginny already. Ginny was the most mischievous little thing, from the second she learned to crawl. Fleur and I are already charming everything shut just in case.”

Harry rarely has to reckon with the age difference between Bill and Ginny, but now it feels stupidly obvious to him. Bill would’ve been a year shy of Hogwarts when Ginny was born. Harry tries to remember himself at ten and quickly reroutes his thoughts. He’s spent enough time dwelling on his time with the Dursleys lately, about being the odd boy out everywhere he went.

He can see Bill at ten with ease, lanky like Ron but elfish in the face like Percy, carrying his little sister around so he could show off his pride and joy. It is easy, watching Bill hold Victoire and imagining a past and a future for him. He looks whole, looks at peace. He looks like he belongs in this picture, a father with a daughter, a husband with a wife who he respects, a man who loves and is loved back.

“D’you want to hold her?” Bill asks. “You’ve been a bit hesitant about it, and I thought I might ask when it was just us, in case it’s just people watching that’s the problem. If it’s the baby that’s the problem, no pressure there. Charlie was always afraid of babies, after the twins nearly bit one of his fingers off. Of course, he gave as good as he got, but he never seems to remember that properly.”

“Yeah.” Harry says, surprising himself. “I’d like to. If you’re alright with that.”

Bill passes Victoire over, his instructions on how Harry should hold her filtering in and out through the thick buzz of anxiety in his ears, and he lets Bill adjust his arms and hands until it’s perfect. He can hear her let out soft little whimpers, probably dissatisfied at having been moved, and he gets exponentially more nervous for it.

What if she doesn’t like him? What if she misses her father too much? Was it right to have taken Victoire from him?

“Oh, look at that.” Bill smiles. “She loves you.”

“Harry’s quite good with babies.” Harry hadn’t noticed that Andromeda had snuck up on them until she’d spoken. “He won’t believe it if you tell him, but Teddy doesn’t settle for just anyone and when he sees Harry, he’d follow him to the end of the earth.”

“I’m no good.” Harry says, and chances kissing the top of Victoire’s chubby little head. She mewls happily, or at least he assumes she’s happy. It doesn’t matter -- he hasn’t got the courage to try again, so if she didn’t like it, she won’t have to suffer it again. “And Teddy’s not that difficult to please. He’s a good listener and follows rules well. A credit to your parenting, Andromeda.”

The words feel sour in his mouth. He had listened well and followed rules as best as he could as a child, and what had that gotten him? His survival to this moment had depended on him saying no, on him running headlong toward danger with his heart beating in his mouth. Some unspoken covenant requires that parents are told their children are good for being obedient, but obedience has never done Harry any good.

“He’s got his mother’s temperament.” Andromeda smiles at Teddy, who’s rolled off his broom, tired from playing “Quidditch” and is using it to sweep the grass. “He’ll play the part of an angel for anyone he likes. When he’s getting stroppy, we’re all at risk.”

“He’s hardly ever stroppy.” Harry corrects, and Andromeda shakes her head. “It’s just luck, the fact that they like me.”

“I’d like your luck.” Bill laughs. “You’ve been saying everything that’s happened in the last nine years is luck, and if luck’s that powerful… I might get a few hours of sleep at night, with that on board.”

“Take it, please.” Harry chuckles. “I’m sick of all the trouble it’s brought me.”

Victoire snuffles, adjusting how her head lays on his shoulder.

“You’re a natural.” Andromeda says softly. “She loves you.”

He rubs Victoire’s back in circles and hopes no one’s noticed how his smile has grown just a touch fainter.

* * *

It’s hard not to superimpose pigtails onto Hannah Abbott’s head. She was never seen without them at Hogwarts. Her blonde hair is twisted into an elaborate knot at the back of her head, one he knows, from Neville’s letters, that she does by herself, without any magic, as part of her self-care routine. They’ve all left their childhood selves behind, but something about Hannah is still familiar, like she didn’t quite grow out of her face.

“Neville said I could find you here.” Harry says, afraid to shatter her silence, but Hannah sets down her pen with a smile. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“No, I was just doing the books by hand for some practice.” Hannah says, smiling tiredly. “And I welcome any distractions from that. The only reason I’m able to do enough maths to wrap my head around the accounts is because my mother taught me.”

Harry smiles back, because he knows loss, knows the way it hollows you out and remakes you in its own image. He knows the way loss can turn even the most beautiful things sour and bitter, how every moment of uncomplicated joy starts leaving a repulsive aftertaste. How the ghosts left behind in memories magnify a person’s absence beyond all compare.

“I wanted to talk to you about that, actually. Not exactly, but…” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “I want to talk about growing up. What it was like, for us. How we can do something to make it easier. For the next group of kids.”

Hannah nods thoughtfully. “How so?”

“Hagrid said my name had been down for Hogwarts before I was born, which, I don’t know how that works, but it’d imply the existence of some kind of list.” Harry says. “And the list’s definitely got up to date addresses on it, because Hermione moved a few times as a kid and her letter still came to the right place. Hopefully someone’s reading that list before the letters are sent out but I’m not encouraged, given the state of affairs.”

He knows for a fact no one is reading the list. Then, someone might have realized he was living in a cupboard. Then, someone might have had to act. Then, someone might have taken him from the Dursleys and had to actually raise him, not keep him just alive enough for convenient slaughter. It is easier to believe no one is reading the list than to entertain the alternative: that someone was reading the list and simply didn’t care.

“I doubt anyone’s keeping track.” Hannah sighs. “No one even asked why I left school, sixth year. They just put me in with the next year group, when I came back. I don’t think they would’ve blinked an eye if I asked to be with the seventh years without passing the exams.”

“I hope someone is.” Harry says. “But maybe that’s only because I’m afraid no one is.”

“Harry…” Hannah fixes him with a searching look. “If no one looked for you, why would you think anyone was looking for us? If they let you sit all those years until you were old enough for Hogwarts, what do you think happened to the rest of us?” He must look some kind of scared, because she reaches across the table to pat him on the shoulder. “It’s no fault of yours. It’s this society, it’s everything about the way this world works. But you were more valuable to them than all of us combined. And if you slipped through the cracks, the rest of us didn’t even have a chance.”

* * *

_Dear Susan,_

_I know it’s been awhile since we’ve spoken, but I’m trying to get a project off the ground and I’d like to know if you’re interested. It’s related to what I said at the Ministry, about keeping kids safe. Hannah says you might be interested, and have time, now that you’ve finished your Healer training (though I hear your trainee hours are going to be brutal). We’ll be meeting in a few weeks if you’re interested. Hannah’s setting up a time and a place._

_Thanks,_   
_Harry_

* * *

“Cleared out the Cauldron for us. I didn’t know if we’d have to worry about being overheard.” Hannah stretches her arms out as Harry comes through the door to the Leaky, the bell jingling as he shuts it softly. “Tom’s about somewhere, but I don’t think he’ll say anything if we ask him not to.”

“It’s no problem.” Harry mumbles. He rubs at his arms, trying to feel a little more grounded. He shuffles his feet until they’re exactly shoulder width apart, some ancient whispers of Uncle Vernon describing professionalism to Dudley while Harry hid under the stairs creeping through time to sink their hooked hands into him. “Clearing out the space is a lot.” Hannah stares at him quizzically, so he tries to speak a little louder. His voice still shakes, betraying how nervous he is about this meeting, how desperately he wants this to go well. “Aren’t you afraid of losing profits? If you close down for a meeting? You didn’t have to-- Or, if I could leave Tom something, or you even--”

“Harry.” Hannah laughs. “You don’t have to solve every problem. Besides, Tom’s getting older. He needs a night off every so often.” She gestures to a table by the fireplace. “Susan’s running late. Her partner’s trying to change their light bulbs with magic.” She pauses, as if expecting Harry to laugh, then forges ahead. “Of course, it’s not going well, so Susan’s cleaning up the glass.”

The bell jingles in the doorway again and Dennis Creevey waves hesitantly at Harry from the doorway. His mousy brown hair falls haphazardly over one of his eyes and his shirt is buttoned wrong, every buttonhole matched with the button below it. He hasn’t seemed to notice, the shirttails partially tucked into the front of his jeans, his collar hanging open crookedly over his collarbones. His eyes are green, but other than that, he resembles Colin fiercely, from the way his lips twitch to the thickness of his eyebrows.

Harry’s heart aches for him as he waves back, as Dennis slowly integrates himself into their orbit. “Nice to see you, Dennis.”

“Nice to see you as well, Harry.” Dennis, for lack of a better word, looks quite harried, as if he’s seconds from rushing off to something new. Harry is reminded quite violently of a squirrel fussing over the state of its nest. “You too, Hannah. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Hannah and Dennis chatter happily about the state of the weather, about the prices of Potions ingredients, and the exchange rate between pounds to Galleons. It’s fairly obvious that they know each other well -- he’s seen them talk at DA reunions -- but he hadn’t realized quite how well. He sees Dennis’ joy return, in little, cautious leaps and bounds, the ebullience he remembers from their years at Hogwarts bleeding into his words and actions, into the way he becomes a little more animated with every word that leaves his lips.

He hears a loud string of curses from the fireplace and turns to see Susan Bones stumbling out of the fire, shaking soot off in every direction before Vanishing it with a swing of her wand.

If anyone’s changed since their school years, it’s Susan, who was perpetually surrounded by a cloud of messy hair and nicked trousers from Ernie Macmillan’s trunk to wear instead of the uniform skirt. Now, she’s buzzed her hair off, leaving what can generously be called fuzz on her head, and seems to always be wearing the same jean jacket with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, regardless of the weather. Everyone’s being quite mysterious about who Susan’s dating, always using partner instead of anything that would give away their gender, but it’s none of Harry’s business, so he hasn’t asked.

“Hey Harry.” Susan smiles. Her voice is sandpaper rough, her brown eyes kind. “Shall we get started then?” She rubs her hands together. “What’s on the agenda?”

“Just getting to know each other again. Talking about what we’re good at. Seeing how we want to get this project off the ground.” Harry shrugs. “Nothing much.”

“Nothing much, he says.” Susan grins, shaking her head. “Nice to see you haven’t changed since the DA.”

“Should I change the plan?” Harry asks. “Did I say too much? Was that a lot? Should I have narrowed our focus?”

“You really haven’t changed one bit.” Hannah giggles. “No, that’s exactly enough.”

“Next he’ll say we’ve gotten to know each other enough and that we should get to the business at hand.” Dennis pipes up and Harry looks around, horrified. Ron and Hermione would usually defend him at this stage, but for the first time in years, he’s on his own. “Oh, he’s thinking it right now, look at him.”

“I wasn’t.” Harry lies. “I’m not that much of a taskmaster.”

“Then I’ll be the taskmaster.” Susan says. “I’m here because I’ve got connections in Magical Law Enforcement. As of two weeks ago, I’m a trainee Healer. Hold the applause, I know, a Hufflepuff going into Healing, it’s a revolutionary career move.” She rolls her eyes. “I know I’m a stereotype. But I can say it. You can’t.”

“Congratulations.” Dennis says meekly. “That’s… incredible dedication.”

“You’re alright, Creevey.” Susan sounds rather impressed, leaning back in her chair. “Potter’s got a good nose for teammates.”

“Thanks.” Dennis stammers. “I’m, uh, Dennis. If anyone doesn’t know me. I work for the Improper Use of Magic Office. They flag accidental magic events and regulate underage magic usage. I’m working on tweaking the detection spells so they can tell us who did the magic, not just that magic has been used. It’s unfair to Muggleborn and Muggle raised kids that we’re more likely to be caught and punished for something beyond our control. They may have our names from birth, but we don’t learn control from birth, we don’t have the ability to hide our mistakes behind parents or adult siblings.” He pauses for a few seconds, looking like he’d like nothing more than to melt into the floor. “Was that enough?”

“More than enough, Dennis.” Hannah says comfortingly. “I’m Hannah, but you all know me. Tom’s training me here, but I’m ready for something new. I’ve always wondered about Healer training, but after hearing Susan whinge about it for the past two years, it’s definitely quite far in my future.” She laughs. “I want to help. Harry gave a good speech and… well, most of us were displaced by the war, in one way or another. Most of us lost someone. I left school for a year because of what happened to my mother, and I came back to… well, we all know what I came back to. Except Harry, I suppose, since he had better things to do.”

A hesitant round of laughter breaks out between Dennis, Susan, and Hannah, all three of them glancing toward Harry like he’ll somehow feel insulted by the truth.

“I wasn’t there.” Harry shrugs. “And no matter how much I hear from Ginny or anyone else who stayed, I won’t know what it was like to be there.” He tugs at the collar of his shirt. “And that’s why you’ve all got valuable perspectives. That’s why I want you working on this. You know children can’t raise each other, let alone themselves.”

Susan shakes her head. “Always the dramatics, Potter. No wonder those hacks at the Ministry opened their pockets as wide as they did.”

“I wasn’t-- I didn’t--” Harry’s head spins.

It is a sick thing, that he has to parade himself around like a show pony for others to put their money where their mouth is. It is terrifying that they need to see what trauma has made him, the insidious, disgusting ways his past have shaped him, to give from their abundance. He has been a figurehead his whole life, a rallying cry, a monument to the past, but this part of it hurts the most. He has proven himself, has saved the world, and now he is useless to them beyond his performances of pain. He is the line between what was and what will be, and every day, the Wizarding World seeks to put more distance between what he is and what he stands for.

“I’m only kidding.” Susan says calmly, throwing an arm around his shoulders. It’s abrupt, but he suppresses the flinch neatly. From the dark look in her eyes, he wonders if he caught himself well enough. “Don’t worry about it.”

“If they opened their pockets, if they gave money, we need to make sure we know where it’s going.” Harry says. He has always been a good hand at planning when it mattered. “Use our contacts, our networks, whatever we have at our disposal. Find out where the money’s going and then see what’s being done with it. We’ll only establish ourselves well if we have something different about us. Defense and duelling clubs existed before Dumbledore’s Army, but Dumbledore’s Army had a cause. These charities exist, but we’re not a charity. We’re something different.”

It feels like something is being born, like something is blooming out of the blood rich soil of the war. Like all the words of change and justice they have been sowing have finally taken root among the bones of their peers, like all the tears they have cried have watered them enough for a carpet of flowers to cover the carnage.

“You’re right.” Susan says. “We’re going to be better.”

* * *

“Harry! Harry!” Harry turns around to see Dennis jogging up to him, looking rather worried. “Harry, thanks for stopping.” Dennis puts his hands on his knees, his hair flopping awkwardly over his forehead as he catches his breath. Once he’s straightened up again, Harry’s struck by how painfully young he looks. “I had a question for you. I wanted to ask it face to face. You know. Man to man.”

“Man to man.” Harry nods slowly. “Ask away, then.”

“Why me?” Dennis asks, looking like he’s fresh out of courage but his mind’s gone off leash. “Susan’s got connections in the Ministry. She says her aunt’s name and anyone in Magical Law Enforcement listens. Hannah’s work in the Leaky means that she knows everyone and everyone knows her. They trust her. She’s a good lookout and she’s got access to the Muggleborns that are coming to Diagon Alley for the first time. There's a strategy to those choices. Why me?”

“I remember Colin.” The word sneak their way out of Harry’s brain, muscling their way to the front of his tongue and jumping out into the summer air. “I remember you and Colin. My fourth year, with the tournament… You were charming the badges. The two of you, little as you were, trying to fix the badges so I’d feel better. You understood what it felt like, with everyone turned against you like that. And you wanted to fix it, both of you.”

“You remember us?” Dennis asks, looking rather embarrassed for it. The tips of his ears are blush pink. “You, Harry Potter.”

“A lot of people have asked me if I remember them. From Hogwarts, or from any number of other places.” Harry says. “Sometimes I lie to make them happy. But this is the truth.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I called in two Hufflepuffs other than the two of us. Because they know this is going to be hard work and humbling work. Because if it isn’t both of those things, we’re not doing it right. We’re not thinking enough about the ways things could go wrong, the support that people need, the resources we need to get these children if it’s easy. That’s no accident.”

“I was a Gryffindor.” Dennis interjects. “And so were you. What do Houses have to do with anything? We’re adults now. Hopefully we’ve grown beyond the need for those labels.” He grins crookedly, perhaps trying to set Harry at ease. “Hopefully we’ve all got more to us than that, now.”

“Of all the Gryffindors, of all the DA members, you disappeared the fastest after the war. No one could find you unless you wanted to be found.” Harry says. “I don’t want people who want recognition. I don’t want people who have any delusions about this being a nine to five job that they can leave in the office. Because if we’re not willing to work ourselves to the bone for these kids, we’re not doing enough. And I knew you’d understand that.”

“Yeah.” Dennis says hoarsely. “I do understand that.”

“All of us, all four of us, we lost at least one person we loved. In the war, around the war, because of the war.” Harry says. “I lost my parents. My godfather. Teddy’s father. Susan lost her whole family. Hannah lost her mother. We all lost too many friends. You lost Colin.” He takes a deep breath in through his nose. “We know what it feels like, to want something you can’t have with everything in you. To know you can’t have it. You can’t know what those kids are missing out on, the power of what stability and love and trust can do for you, unless you’ve lost it before. And we’re the ones that’ll appreciate giving it to them the most.”

“I can see why Colin liked you.” Dennis says. “I don’t think you ever talked this much at school, but he always said you had an inspiring aura.”

“I have no idea what an aura is.” Harry grimaces. “I trust Colin on that one, though.”

Dennis’ smile is fragile and flickers at the edges like a dying lightbulb, but he looks like someone who’s been grasping at straws for something to believe in and has finally found it.

* * *

“You’re in a good mood these days.” Hermione easily dodges the spatula thrown out of the tangle of limbs that is RonAndGinny cooking dinner, if what’s currently burning on the stove can be called that. “Try harder if you’re going to hit me.”

A series of muffled “I’m sorry”s make no difference, as Ron and Ginny are at each other’s throats again seconds later.

“After all of this, whatever they’re going to make won’t even be seasoned.” Hermione says, as if Harry didn’t grow up with the Dursleys. She regularly forgets that, despite the color of his skin, Harry hasn’t had the luxury of being exposed to his father’s culture beyond takeout menus and quick trips to stores crammed full of people who seemed to think he spoke their language. “Should we tell them to stop yet?”

“No.” Harry smiles. “Let them fight. They’ll be happier for it.”

“You must really be in a good mood.” Hermione sounds pleasantly surprised. “What’s changed?”

“I’m working on something new.” Harry says. “Something that fulfills me.”

Hermione looks like she’s seen the sun after years underground. “I’m so glad to hear that, Harry.” She wraps him up in a hug. “I’ve wanted this for you for a long time.”

Harry welcomes the intrusion into his space, and hums a few bars from O Children instead of telling her to back off, knowing it’ll get her laughing too hard to stand up straight. Hermione can’t even look him in the eye after she recognizes the song. He hasn’t ever made jokes about their time on the run, honest to god, funny jokes that he wants people to laugh at, and it seems to have transformed Hermione.

“Yeah.” He says. “I think I’ve needed this for longer than I’d care to admit.”

* * *

Harry is cobbling together a list of things to track in their records when Ginny walks into the bedroom, windswept and ruddy cheeked. The calendar had said she was heading to the Burrow for dinner and a game of Quidditch with her brothers. Harry doesn’t think to ask anything more. He’s too absorbed in the task at hand, too busy with keeping track of every little detail.

“It’s been awhile since you’ve been up this late.” Ginny smiles. “Since you’ve looked this excited.”

“Working on something new.” Harry says, scribbling down another potential reporter on the list. It would make sense to give them numbers. It would make sense to start with as complex a form as possible, but magic would make it easy to update the forms as they add more information. “It’s a project, with a couple of other DA people. We’re trying to keep track of magical kids, especially the Muggle raised ones, but all of them. So we know how kids are doing before their Hogwarts letters come. So people can check on them, whether they need checking in on or not.”

He feels like he’s rambling, like he’s said too much, but Ginny is beaming at him like he’s just handed her the sun and stars, plucked from the sky with his own hands.

“That’s amazing.” She says. “Who’s working with you?”

“Susan’s investigating family trees for Pureblood kids and Muggleborns about to start Hogwarts in the next two years. Susan Bones, that is. She’s a trainee Healer too, so that’ll be useful if we have to talk to anyone face to face.” Harry says. “Hannah Abbott is going to help get Madam Rosmerta and Aberforth Dumbledore in with Tom to help us fill in the gaps with kids we might be missing and seeing who else might be interested, from the old guard in the DA. I’m making forms for Susan and Hannah to go over for what a report might look like, so we can talk over it together.”

“Forms, huh?” Ginny peeks over his shoulder. “Oh, things are getting serious then.”

“And we’ve got Dennis, Colin’s brother, working on the accidental magic angle. Dennis is working in the Improper Use of Magic department, so he’s helping pin down the magic that detects accidental magic outbursts. All we know now is that magic happened, but we need to know _who_ did it, so we can work with the child and their family to make sure things are safe. We’re talking about what happened with Dobby and the pudding, before my second year, so he can tighten up the charms framework.”

“I always wondered why less of us got caught.” Ginny nods slowly. “Because we did plenty of magic at home. The twins did plenty of magic at home, really. Ron’s teddy bear, turning Percy’s hair blue…” Her smile weakens. She’s thinking of Fred. “When I was little, I always thought it was that Dad worked for the Ministry. I guess not. Especially since you were the only one that got caught doing underage magic that I knew. Twice.”

“If someone was actually checking in on us, someone would’ve noticed what was wrong with me. I mean, my letter said Cupboard Under The Stairs as my address! And if no one checked in on me, who’s checking in on kids like Hannah, who go missing from school? Or Neville, whose family treated him horribly until they were sure he had magic?”

“This is-- This is incredible for you, Harry.” Ginny says. She looks mournful, the way she always does when he reveals something about his childhood. He realizes that he hadn’t spoken about the address on the letter before. Oops. “If you’re looking for someone to help with the red tape, Percy’s looking for something new. He’d jump at the chance to work on a project like this. Something meaningful. Do you want me to talk to him?”

“I’ll talk to him.” Harry nods. “He’ll be useful here. He’ll know what we need to say to keep the Ministry off our backs, and honestly, I wasn’t sure how we were going to handle that. Dennis is our inside man, but you know Dennis.”

Ginny laughs. “He’s a lovely friend, but he’d crumble under any kind of interrogation.”

“Percy would be perfect.” Harry smiles. “Thank you. It means a lot that you’re being supportive.”

“Hey, that’s what I’m here for. That’s what you’ve done for me.” Ginny shrugs. “It’s my turn to yell at you from the box seats, whatever that looks like.”

* * *

“We’ve got office space in Diagon Alley.” Hannah says gleefully. “The rent is reasonable and there’s more than enough space for desks for all of us.”

“I’ve talked to Headmistress McGonagall. Learned more about the list. I’ve got copies, actually.” Susan passes copies around the table. “These are all the kids expected to start this September and next at Hogwarts. I’ve been cross-referencing with family trees I was able to dig up and the list of the dead from the Battle of Hogwarts to see if anyone’s got relatives who fought on either side. From that, I got a third list, which is all the Muggleborns.”

“Susan got the list of Muggleborns to me earlier this week, and I’ve been checking through the records to see if any of them have earned a house call yet.” Dennis digs a grubby notepad out of his bookbag and tosses it on the table. “Only one of them has so far, a Morgan Edwards. The rest of these kids haven’t a single idea about magic.”

“I’ve got these ready. Drafts of records we could keep.” Harry drops three folders on the table with a thump. “Ideas about how often we could check in. What kinds of things we should be looking for.”

He leaves out the fact that these guidelines are crafted exactly to discover kids like himself, who were kept just well enough to fly under the system’s radar. He leaves out the fact that he’s been working through the impact of a maelstrom of memories as he writes these documents, and felt better about it than he ever had before.

“He’s gone and made folders.” Susan whispers, awestruck. “This is going to be so much fun.”

“Not that children suffering is in any way fun. Fixing it is fun.” Dennis cuts in. “Just, uh, clarifying, just in case.”

“You know perfectly well that’s what I meant.” Susan rolls her eyes.

“Folders.” Harry taps Susan’s. “We should look at the folders.”

“This is going to be amazing.” Hannah smiles. “I can’t wait.”

* * *

Ron is decked out in Cannons orange, clashing mightily with both his hair and Harry’s Harpies green, yelling at the players through the glass of the box seats like they can hear him. Harry smiles at Ron’s antics where, months ago, he might have cringed and quietly begged him to be a little less loud, a little less ready to draw attention to them. Now, he sits back in his chair, flipping through a little notebook of ideas to bring up at the next meeting, and enjoys the game. Cameras still flash and people are still trying to interrupt his thoughts, but he is fine with it, high on the sense of calm that he hasn’t felt before.

Maybe this is normalcy. Maybe this is security.

He hasn’t ever had it before, so he wouldn’t know.

“Haven’t seen you this fine in public in awhile.” Ron whispers to him, leaning into his space like they often did as children, as teenagers. “Proud of you, mate.”

“I’m pretty happy.” Harry says. “I’ve got a lot to be happy about. Life is pretty good.” He smiles. “I’ve realized what I want, I guess.”

He wants to be the best godfather in the world to Teddy. He wants to support Ginny in everything she does, to yell from the rooftops that she’s the best girlfriend in the world while reminding everyone that she’s her own person, with her own goals and her own desires. He wants to make sure his friends and family are safe, well, and comfortable in their skin. He wants to foster this fragile sense of self-love he’s latched onto, to feel this good about himself and his choices all the time.

“You and Hermione were right.” Harry admits. “I didn’t really know what I wanted. I was trying to be what I thought I should be. What I thought people needed. I wasn’t thinking about myself at all.”

“You can say that again.” Ron grins. “Hermione’s going to be so upset that she didn’t hear this in person.”

“I’ll say it again for her when I see her next, then.” Harry laughs. “Maybe I’ll even listen to her more often.”

* * *

Reporters turn their heads at the sound of Harry and Ron laughing at each other, assuming there’s breaking news to be had. And maybe there is a story in Harry’s heart opening up for business, his mind clear for the first time in his life, but for now, he’d like to keep it to himself.

“We’re both off to work.” Harry says cheerfully, wiping down the kitchen counters before tossing the washcloth in the sink.

He’ll do a load of laundry later, once he’s back in the evening. Once he’s back in the evening. The words are like a drug, the reminder that he has somewhere to go for a full day, somewhere to be, things to do almost intoxicating. He hasn’t had something to occupy his time so completely in so long (since Voldemort, if he’s being honest), and this is a lot healthier than chasing Voldemort around England.

“Yes we are.” Ginny agrees. “I’m excited for you. And for the rest. Tell them I said hello!”

“Will do.” Harry nods. “I’ll see you in the evening?”

“The calendar says six. Let me know if you’re running late.” She balances on the tips of her toes like a ballet dancer to steal a kiss. “I want this to be good for you. I want it to make you happy. Set limits for yourself as you need them, alright?”

“Yeah.” Harry says, and Ginny shakes her head, fully aware he’s just saying it for her comfort. “I promise! I’ll be good about it!”

“Sure.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s why I love you. You’ll never be able to stop thinking about the things that matter to you.”

“Oh.” Harry tries not to look too thrilled by the revelation that she loves him, but fails miserably, just as he has every time before. With everything feeling settled for the first time in years, it’s as if he has more time to trip over these everyday miracles, the little confessions of love sandwiched in between ordinary moments. It feels like sixth year all over again. “I love you too. Even when you’re smelly.”

“A romantic.” Ginny feigns swooning. “I’ve really hit the jackpot.”

“Go to work.” Harry sticks his tongue out and she sighs theatrically before stomping out of the room like a child banished to the timeout corner. “I love you!” He calls after her. “Have a great day!”

“I will!” She calls back, and then he hears her yell “The Nest”, and a rush of noise that must be the Floo Network sweeping her away.

He gathers up his things slowly, taking several circuits of the house to make sure his bag is properly packed, and then walks out into the world. The sound of busy people doesn’t grate on his ears, instead making him smile. He delights in it for a few minutes, letting the crowd push him along to some great unknown before slipping off into an alley to Apparate to the Leaky Cauldron.

He shakes hands on his path through the Leaky, lets the praise sink into his skin, and taps the right bricks to open the doorway into Diagon Alley, where there’s more people to contend with. He’s always hated crowds, the way other people’s presence sticks to your skin like sludge, but today, with a cause in mind, with a goal in mind, it feels manageable. His anxiety is on a low simmer in his chest, a slight burn right behind his heart, but he can block it out. He can banish it someplace cold and far away and trust that it will stay there.

It’s a bit of a walk from the mouth of the alley to the office, but he relishes the sights and sounds, reminded fondly of the first time Hagrid had led him through the Alley, just after he’d turned eleven. The day he’d gotten Hedwig. The day he’d gotten his wand. The day he’d found out who he was for the first time.

Being Harry Potter has been a weight on his shoulders since he can remember, but now it sounds like something worthwhile.

“To the right!” He hears Hannah yell, and watches Susan and Dennis yank a sign they’re levitating to the left, then sharply right, to try and hang it perfectly on the hook. The sign is blank, for now, a wooden board with a metal ring nailed to it, and it flies wildly about in the air, nearly decapitating a bird, before Dennis guides the ring onto its matching hook.

“There.” He says, with a heavy sigh. “Finally.” He notices Harry watching, and turns from morose to gleeful in a split second. “Hello Harry!”

“Hello Dennis! Susan, Hannah.” Harry suffers through Susan’s bear hug and hugs Hannah of his own volition before shaking Dennis’ hand. “Where’s Percy?”

“Indoors.” Susan scowls. “He wouldn’t help with the sign. He said he knew we’d spend far too much time on it.”

“Did you?” Harry teases.

“Well, yes, but--” Hannah cuts in. “It was fun. A bonding experience.”

“Have you decided what to put on it?” Dennis asks, before turning to Harry. “Oh, that’s been a debate all morning. We never decided what to put on the sign. All of our names would take up a lot of space, but if we have to pick some names, which names do we put on there? Do we have a name? Can we say Social Services without licensure?”

“Isn’t that what we called Percy in for?” Susan asks. “I feel like that’s what he should’ve been doing instead of organizing and labelling folders.”

“Doesn’t matter what we’ve got on the sign.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “The work that we’re doing matters. Put our names on there for now, I guess. We can change it any time. It’s the work that we’re doing that matters.”

He waves his wand, and just as he’d carved Dobby’s epitaph into stone, their names appear on the wood -- Abbott, Bones, Creevey, Potter, and Weasley, in artfully crooked letters. He carves “Wizarding Social Services” on the next line, centered under their names, and everyone smiles at each other like they’re sharing a secret.

“Do we want to get started?” Harry asks.

Everyone shoves their way past each other through the door and Harry feels full to the brim with warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for taking this ride with me.
> 
> -s

**Author's Note:**

> if you want to make a friend, [come hang with me on twitter](https://www.twitter.com/tamilprongspttr), where i talk about how much i love harry potter, braime, and public health! i am always excited to hear from new people!
> 
> hope you and your loved ones are all keeping safe and well in these trying times. mask up!


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